Pilgrim walks in Franciscan Italy

PILGRIM WALKS
FRANCISCAN ITALY

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

GIFT OF
WILLIAM A. NITZE

PILGRIM WALKS IN
FRANCISCAN ITALY

PILGRIM WALKS IN
FRANCISCAN ITALY

BY JOHANNES JORGENSEN

SANDS & CO.

EDINBURGH: 21 HANOVER STREET
LONDON: 23 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND

1908

ax

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAO«

I. GRECCIO ..... 1
II. A DAY IN THE MONASTERY . . 34

III. FONTE COLOMBO : LA FORESTA : A

SABINE FESTIVAL . . .55

IV. ASSISI . . . . .112

V. GORTON A. ON THE WAY TO MOUNT

ALVERNA . . . . .135

VI. THE HOLY MOUNTAIN 154

Til

PI'LGRIM WALKS IN
FRANCISCAN ITALY

GRECCIO

DURING the winter of 1904 I had
frequently looked northward with a
pilgrim's yearning to the Galilee of St
Francis — Umbria, Tuscany, the March
of Ancona, the fairest region of fair
Italy, hallowed by the footsteps of the
saint, rich in historical and legendary
lore. In imagination I entered the
ravines of the Apennines, the solitudes
of the mountain forests, where are the
ancient hermitages, the secluded monas-
teries dating from the earliest years of

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the Franciscan Order. I longed to
visit these and other monasteries of
great antiquity beyond the hills, where
all is just the same at the present day
as in the days of yore — to find myself
actually within the precincts of the
venerable cloisters about which such
wondrous stories are related.

At length, one fine day in April, I
was able to fulfil my wish, to start on
my travels, my primary destination
being the vale of Rieti. In the same
compartment with me was a priest, with
whom I entered into conversation. We
naturally spoke of St Francis, and of the
great interest now generally taken in
him and all that is closely associated
with him. As the train wound its slow
way up through the wild, mountainous
region, my fellow-traveller directed my
attention to the principal points of
interest : the picturesque old towns on

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the hillsides, whose towers and belfries
stood out dark against the clear sky ;
the grey feudal fortresses crowning the
loftier heights.

Presently we emerged into the wide
plain between the vineyards, where the
verdant branches of the vines hang like
festoons from tree to tree. In the far
distance, above the purple hills, the
crests of the snow - clad mountains
were discernible, glistening in the sun-
shine. The train stopped ; we were in
Greccio. The cool air from the moun-
tains met us as we passed out of the
small station to the highroad.

Greccio consists of three distinct parts :
the new part close to the railway station ;
the old town high up on the hillside ; and
the ancient Franciscan monastery, San
Francesco di Greccio. The town, whose
windows show dark on the grey walls

of the houses, amid which rises a single
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bell tower, is on the left side of a toler-
ably wide valley, which extends for a
considerable way between the mountains.
The monastery is on the right side of
the valley, behind a thick wood of oaks
and laurels.

Some account of this remarkable
foundation was given to me by the
priest while our ways lay together.
Soon our roads parted. He went on to
the town — he was attached to the church
of Greccio — while I had to follow a
stony path cut in the rock, which would
bring me, in somewhat less than an
hour, to the cloister on the height.
" They have accommodation for strangers
up there," were the last words my new
friend addressed to me. Well for me
that it was so, for Greccio does not
boast a single inn.

Then I went on my way alone. On
my right rose the mountain, the blue-

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

grey stone cropping up continually
through the scanty grass, Alpen violets
blossoming on the slope. On my left
was the cultivated campaign, where the
young corn, already in the blade, formed
a verdant carpet below the climbing
vines. Perfect quiet prevailed all
around — such quiet as can be met with
only in the open country.

But listen ! A soft sound breaks the
stillness. Some one is singing out
yonder. The voice is that of a child ;
the song I recognise at once as one of
those strangely plaintive, lingering
melodies that I have often heard the
Umbrian peasants sing at their work in
the fields. I cannot distinguish the
words, but about the tune there can be
no mistake. Many a time have I heard
it wafted from the olive groves in the
vicinity of Assisi, on a tranquil autumn
evening, when the mist begins to rise in

PILGEIM WALKS

the broad meadows; and later on,
while the shades of night are falling,
some solitary peasant girl, going home
at the close of day, may be heard singing,
in slow, measured cadence, that same
sad, sweet melody.

I sat down by the wayside to rest
awhile, and the past rose up vividly
before me. Everything around me
forcibly recalled the memory of that
happy summer which, having been
admitted to the true Fold after long
wanderings, I spent in the mountain
seclusion of Las Roccas, under Padre
Felice's roof. I noticed in the air the
peculiar, aromatic scent that is to be
remarked in the neighbourhood of Italian
farmyards — the odour of withered maize
leaves strewn about the threshing floor,
and of juniper branches emitting a
pungent fragrance as they burned on the

hearth. It told me that I could not be
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IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

far from some human habitation ; and
on the hillside, beneath some straggling
oaks, I saw several children picking up
sticks. On coming up to them, I asked
a little girl, with fair hair and blue eyes,
the way to the monastery. In answer
she turned round, and, pointing to the
eminence above, said : " There it is ! "
There, in fact, it was, small and white,
clinging to the rock, overshadowed by
laurels and oaks. It was still a good
way off, but the little maiden showed
me a short cut through the convent
vineyard and garden. I clambered
over a hedge and got into the garden.

It is a large enclosure, laid out in
terraces on the slope of the mountain,
full of tall trees, high grass, and wild
flowers, blue hyacinths and scarlet
anemones. Now and again one comes
on a cultivated portion, sometimes

planted with vines, or a loggia, where

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PILGRIM WALKS

lovely lilies in pots are arranged in rows
on the edge of the terrace.

I mounted terrace after terrace,
always ascending, yet meeting no one.
And the convent still stood high over-
head, apparently as inaccessible, un-
approachable as ever.

Presently I heard someone call, and
from behind some bushes there stepped
out a sturdy, thick-set figure, with
features bronzed by the sun, curly hair,
and bright-looking, brown eyes. It was
a Franciscan ; his brown habit was
confined round his waist by a thick cord,
his feet were bare, and in his hand he
held a spade, which he rested on the
ground, while he stared in amazement
at the stranger who had intruded into
the convent grounds. Meanwhile, I
hastened to produce the document with
which the General of the Order of Friars
Minor, Father David Fleming, had

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

furnished me, commending me in most
eulogistic terms to the Superiors of the
Order, and expressing his wish that
"the bearer should every where be made
acquainted with the sacred traditions,
and every facility should be afforded him
for obtaining information respecting our
holy Father Francis." No sooner had
the bare-footed Brother seen the
armorial bearings of the Order (the two
arms crossed) at the head of the paper,
and read the opening words : " Fr.
David Fleming, vicarius generalis totius
ordinis patrum minorum" than he bowed
deferentially, stuck his spade in the earth,
turned round and shouted : " Giuseppe !
Giuseppe ! "

At his call forth came Giuseppe, a
quite young Brother, of the same rather
unkempt type as the other. Only his
habit was more soil- stained and even

torn, and his bare feet were caked with
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PILGKIM WALKS

the mud which the sun had dried on
them.

"Giuseppe, show this gentleman the
way up to the monastery."

Thereupon the young monk ran
before me to a door in the garden-wall,
a door which opened upon a long flight
of stone steps, which was the proper
way up to the monastery. He closed
the door behind me, and I began the
ascent alone.

It was a very steep ascent, the steps
were zigzag, and paved with small,
uneven stones. On the one side was
the declivity of the mountain-side,
clothed with a rich vegetation of
elegant ferns and dark laurels. On the
other side was a breastwork of chalk
stones, commanding an extensive view
of the country. As I went on ascend-
ing, the view became more and more

wondrously beautiful. I leaned over
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the wall; already the garden in which
I had been lay far below, and the two
Franciscans at work among the vines
were dwarfed by distance. At length
the steps came out on a terrace, whence
I could see the whole vale of Rieti
spread out below like a panorama,
partitioned out into wide fields, some
green, some brown, shut in by the
mountain tops. The highest of these
were snow-capped, and half shrouded
by grey clouds.

In front of me was the entrance to
the monastery, whose white walls really
seemed to adhere to the rock and be
suspended from it; apparently, the
building was on the eve of being
detached, and precipitated into the
abyss. The gate was of the simplest
kind. A door painted red, with a
broken iron latch, led into a small

anteroom with a brick floor ; a low,

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PILGRIM WALKS

narrow window admitted a little light ;
and one saw another door which
opened — or rather stood open — on to a
narrow passage constructed of planks,
which, at a turning, seemed to lose
itself between whitewashed walls. A
verse from the Book of Tobias (iv. 23)
was inscribed over this second door :
"Fear not, my son. We lead indeed a
poor life, but we shall have many good
things." To the right of the door was
a fresco painting of St Francis ; on the
left, one of St Anthony — both in grey
habits. Under the representation of St
Anthony was a stone holy-water stoup
with the date MDLXII. Close by, a
latticed gate led into a chapel, over
which were the words : " In this chapel,
dedicated to St Luke, Francis prepared
a resting-place for Christ in the crib."
There, then, exactly at the entrance

of the cloister, was the spot where
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

Christmas night was celebrated in
Greccio. I gazed through the lattice,
but all was dark within. After a short
pause I proceeded on my way down
the long corridor, the boards of which
were in many places very loose. A
bell-wire ran the whole length along
the ceiling.

Presently I turned a corner. Over
an archway there was a wooden shield
with the Franciscan arms ; underneath it
was the word, Silentium. I went
through into a kind of entrance hall, or
vestibule, floored with wood, which is
not usual in Italy, but which Francis
enjoined for love of poverty. On one
side, shut off by a wooden lattice, was
a small chapel, with two windows
looking out over the valley ; on the
other, a rickety staircase leading to the
upper story of the monastery. The

naked rock formed the background.
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Fronting me was a closed door which
appeared to shut off the continuation of
the corridor along which I had come ;
and beside it was an open passage,
beyond which all was pitch -darkness.

Not knowing what was before me
there, I preferred to ascend the staircase.
It was narrow, and so low that I had to
stoop to avoid striking my head against
the worm-eaten beams. I fancied I
heard some one overhead, and stood still
to listen; but it was only the slow,
monotonous ticking of a large clock that
seemed very near. Going in the direc-
tion of the sound, I came to a narrow
corridor between two rows of small
rooms painted brown. These were the
cells ; the doors were without locks, but
a cord passing through a hole in the door
afforded the means of lifting the latch
which was inside. My footsteps

sounded noisily in the stillness. I
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

knocked at one after another of the low
doors, but no one answered.

I wandered about in this strange
labyrinth of poverty and brown paint,
up and down nights of stairs, through
rooms so dark that I had to grope my
way about in them ; then out on to
little balconies, in great need of repair,
giving upon the valley. At last, at the
very top, I reached a kind of gallery
constructed against the face of the live
rock, where big piles of laurel branches
were stacked, and golden broom and
purple juniper blossomed in the crevices
of the blue-grey stone. I could go no
farther : a closed door at the end of the
gallery, leading into the forest, forbade
further progress.

So back I went, past other odd nooks
and corners, past the noisily ticking
clock; finally stumbling into a small,
narrow, dimly lighted church, with

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wooden candlesticks on the altar, and
old choir stalls, blackened and shiny
from long centuries of use. Through a
low door I emerged thence into the
open air, on to a tolerably large platform
flagged with tiles. A few steps lower
down was the very door by which a
short time ago I entered on my visit to
the monastery. So I had been all over
it, and found no one at home. Dis-
appointed and — why should I not own
it ? — not a little hungry, I seated myself
on the doorstep. A suitable time and
place, I thought, to read the eighth
chapter of the " Fioretti " — the chapter
about "perfect joy."

There I sat a long time. Five
o'clock came, half-past five, ten minutes
to six : there was not a sound in the
deserted monastery ; only the wind
rushing through the corridors made
the doors creak. At length, far down

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below, the two Brothers whom I saw
in the garden made their appearance.
Their day's work was done ; they came
up the flight of steps, their arms full of
vegetables for supper. I pocketed the
"Fioretti," and a few minutes later I
was seated in the refectory, with a
piece of bread and a glass of wine,
which the older of the two gardeners,
who was also the cook, set before me.

There I was sitting, while Brother
Humilitas — so the cook was called —
chatted pleasantly to me, when the
Father Guardian came in from the
forest, where, according to the good
Franciscan custom, he had spent part
of the day, not with a book of poetry,
but with a volume of the works of
St Leonard of Port Maurice — The
Treasure Hidden beneath the Veil of
the Holy Eucharist.

The Guardian laid his book down on

17 B

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the table while he examined my letters
of recommendation. His physiognomy
reminded one of a golden eaglet : his
eye was bright, his glance keen, his
complexion dark, and his hair black as
ebony. Very carefully and attentively
he perused the Latin sentences written
by his General. All at once, while so
doing, he looked up, glanced at me
sharply, and, pointing to the glass before
me, said with an air of command :
" Beva ! " (Drink your wine).

After I had complied with this
injunction, and not declined another
glass, the Father Guardian led the way
to his cell. It was one of the little
rooms at the door of which I had vainly
knocked. It was almost incredibly
small, and lighted from above ; the
furniture consisted literally of nothing
but a table, some bookshelves, and a

few rush-bottomed chairs.
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While we were talking, the light
faded quickly, and presently the eve-
ning bell rang. Father Guardian stood
up. " We always go into the church at
this time," he said. In the corridor
outside it was pitch-dark, so that I ran
up against some of the monks who were
going by. Then I felt a guiding hand
take mine ; and, stooping our heads, we
passed through a low doorway, and, by
the dim light of a single oil lamp, I
recognised the church where I had
found myself earlier in the afternoon.
With a wave of the hand, the Father
Guardian showed me where to kneel,
and the night prayers began.

Father Guardian knelt beside me.
As my eyes gradually grew accustomed
to the half-light, I descried two, three,
then more figures in the stalls. On the
bare floor just in front of me, a ragged
Brother was kneeling with arms out-

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stretched and palms turned upward. I
glanced stealthily at the others, and saw
that several had their arms extended in
a similar manner. Later on, when I
was at Mount Alverna, I learned why
this attitude in prayer is peculiar to the
Franciscan Order.

The profound silence was broken by
the Father Guardian's voice beginning
the prayers, all of which were in Latin.

" Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus Dominus
Deus noster omnipotens, qui est, et qui
erat, et qui venturus est." — " Holy, holy,
holy Lord God Almighty, who was, and
who is, and who is to come."

And the Brothers responded :

" Et laudemus et superexaltemus eum
in scecula" — " Let us praise and magnify
Him forever."

Father Guardian : " Thou art worthy,
O Lord our God, to receive glory and

honour and power and benediction."
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

The Brothers : " Let us praise and
magnify Him forever."

" Worthy is the Lamb that was slain
to receive power and divinity and
wisdom and strength and honour and
glory and benediction."

The others responded as before ; and
for some time they continued this
antiphonal chant, which was enjoined
by St Francis. It ended with the
usual Doxology, but with the same
interpolation :

Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui
Sancto.

Laudemus et superexaltemus eum in
scecula.

Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et
semper, et in scecula sceculorum. Amen.

Laudemus et superexaltemus . . .

Thereupon followed the prayers — first
the beautiful prayer which St Francis
wrote two years before his death :

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"Almighty, most holy, most high
God, the supreme and only Good, to
Thee we give all praise and honour and
glory. We bless Thee and give thanks
to Thee for all that Thou hast bestowed
on us. Thou art the God of gods, who
alone doest wonders. Thou art the
triune, the one only God, the Lord of
lords, the living and true God. Thou
art our hope, our justice, all our riches.
Thou art our protector, our defender,
our guardian, our refuge, and our
strength. Thou art infinite goodness,
the great and marvellous Lord God,
almighty, gracious, merciful, and our
Redeemer.

" Almighty, eternal, just and merciful
God, grant that we, Thy poor servants,
may always do that which we know to
be Thy will, and always will that which
is pleasing in Thy sight ; so that, purified

and enlightened and kindled by the fire

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of Thy Holy Spirit, we may follow in
the footprints of Thy beloved Son,
Jesus Christ our Lord; and, by Thy
grace, may finally behold Thee in that
blessed country where Thou, O Most
High, livest and reignest, and art
adored, God Almighty, forever and
ever. Amen."

That is the evening oblation which
St Francis taught to his disciples. After
it came the long Rosary in honour of the
Seven Joys of Our Lady. A short
pause ensued ; then I heard the rattle
of matches in a box : a lantern was
lighted ; and in the bright flame, all
that I had before seen but dimly now
stood out in relief against the darkness.
By the light of the lantern, one of the
Fathers read a portion of a spiritual
book in the monotonous, level tone
prescribed by monastic rule for such
readings ; the subject was the necessity

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of meditation on the four last things :
death, judgment, heaven, and hell. Then
the light was extinguished, and mental
prayer followed.

I think I may say that in the course of
my life I have met with much that was
out of the common and affecting, yet
scarcely ever with anything that im-
pressed me so profoundly as those
minutes of perfect silence among the
Franciscans of Greccio. As I knelt
amid those barefooted, brown-habited
friars, who in the darkness raised their
hands and their hearts to Heaven in
voiceless prayer, I realised more vividly
than ever I did before what the Middle
Ages were — how far removed the
twentieth century was ; how far away
beyond the crest of the mountains was
the modern world ; how remote seemed
the great, busy towns, with their glare
and their noise, their unrest, their end-

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less round of amusements. Nothing
then seemed real to me but that humble
little chapel of the poor, primitive
monastery, where the sons of St Francis
prayed, gave thanks and offered praise
to the God for whom the votaries of
the world had scarcely a passing
thought.

How long this profound silence, this
absorption in pra-yer, may have lasted
I know not. Now and again some one
made a slight movement, or sighed.
Presently footsteps were heard : one of
the Brothers rose and left the choir.
Shortly after, the monastery bell rang
out, echoing over the tranquil valley for
the last time that evening. It rang
what in ancient times was the curfew
bell — the signal that all lights were to
be put out, and the fires covered until
the next morning.

As the last stroke of the bell died

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away, a hand took mine as before.
Soon we were all assembled in the
refectory, where the flame of a common,
unshaded petroleum lamp seemed to
pierce one's eyes. Before we sat down
to table, the Father Guardian intro-
duced me to the two young Fathers
whom I had seen in the choir.

After supper there were a few
prayers in the chapel, then away we
went to the common room, where there
was a fire. Although it was April, the
weather was very cold, and in Greccio
it was necessary to warm oneself before
going to bed. So we all gathered in
a semicircle — some sitting, some stand-
ing— round the large, open fireplace,
while Fra Giuseppe piled great logs
on the andirons.

"That young fellow is clever at
lighting fires," said Brother Humilitas,

approvingly.
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Colouring with pleasure and with
the exertion he had been making,
Fra Giuseppe then struck a lucifer
match — one of the old-fashioned ones,
smelling of brimstone, that were in
use half a century ago — and soon a
great fire of laurel branches flared and
blazed under the logs. Our shadows,
of gigantic size, danced on the walls
and ceiling in the fitful firelight.

Last of the row stood the Father
Guardian, staring with eagle gaze into
the fire, and holding out his hands to
get them thoroughly warm. Beside
me on the narrow bench sat Fra
Secondo, gentle, quiet, and serene,
accustomed, as his name implies, never
to be first, but always to sit modestly
in a corner. Yet only begin to talk
to him and you will soon perceive that
few are so well acquainted with the

life of St Francis, or so conversant with

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PILGRIM WALKS

the history of the Franciscan Order, as
old Fra Secondo.

"Here we sit," I said to him, "enjoy-
ing the company of Brother Fire, who
is beauteous and merry and mighty and
strong, and who illumines the night."

"Yes," he answered, and his eyes
smiled under his shaggy white eyebrows.
"Brother Fire was the element which
our Father Francis loved best of all.
In fact, our Father treated fire so
tenderly that he would not permit the
Brothers to throw a burning wick on
the ground, as one often does, to tread
it out ; he always would have them lay
it down reverently, because fire is our
brother, created by the same God as
we are."

"We are not so pious," Father
Chrysostom observed, as he flicked a
spark off his sleeve.

"No," said Father Silverio, with a

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smile. "But, then, fire has not the
same respect for us that it had for St
Francis. You know what happened
when he was living over there in Fonte
Colombo — which you " (here he turned
to me) "will doubtless visit in the
course of your pilgrimage. His eyes
were then so dim by reason of the
many tears he shed for his sins that he
could scarcely see. Brother Elias who
was General of the Order, and Cardinal
Ugolino, got one of the physicians
attached to the Papal Court to visit
St Francis. After examining his eyes,
the physician said he must apply a red-
hot iron above the eye more seriously
affected. So they brought a brasier
filled with live coals, and the iron was
put in to be heated. The doctor's
assistant stood by with a bellows to
blow the fire, and soon the instrument
was as red as a cherry.

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" But before the operation took place,
St Francis went up to the fire and
addressed it, saying : ' Brother Fire,
thou art nobler and more useful than
most created things. See, I have
always been fond of thee, and I always
will be, for love of Him who created
thee. Now show thyself gentle and
kind toward me, and do not burn me
more severely than I can bear.' And
he made the Sign of the Cross over the
red-hot iron. Then the physician
applied the iron, and the Brothers fled
away, horrified. Francis himself, how-
ever, did not speak a single word or
utter a cry. And when the operation
was over, he said to the physician : ' If
it is not sufficiently burned, sear it
afresh : for I did not feel the slightest
pain.'"

Such was Father Silverio's tale. The

Father Guardian said nothing ; he only
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smiled as he stood there holding out his
hands to the fire. But it was time for
our seance to break up. Fra Giuseppe
began to rake together the red-hot
coals for a warming-pan, which, as was
afterward proved, was destined for
my bed. With many reciprocal good
wishes, we parted.

Soon I was alone in the guest
chamber, the best cell in the monastery.
It is large enough to afford space for
a good-sized bed, a prie-dieu, and a
small iron wash-stand, with a modest
set of earthenware. In the white-
washed walls are two cupboards; the
larger one is a wardrobe ; in the other
I bestow my small amount of luggage.
The cell itself is not more than five feet
in length and the same in width.

I open the window, the shutters of
which are inside, and lean out of the

narrow aperture, that is scarcely more
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than a loophole. Opposite to me are
the mountains ; the plain stretches out
below. There are a few stars in the
sky. I hear the sound of the stream
in the valley, and the distant croaking
of frogs.

Leaving the window open, I draw
back within the four walls of the room,
which is lighted by a tall candle in a
brass candlestick on the prie-dieu. A
picture hangs over the bed ; a crucifix
is over the prie-dieu ; beside the door
there is a holy-water font; otherwise
the walls are bare. Yet in this simple
chamber I feel as happy and comfort-
able as I have seldom felt in any other
place in the wide world.

On taking out my watch to wind it
up, I find the hands point only to half-
past nine. I put the watch down on the
prie-dieu at the head of the bed, and
proceed to undress leisurely, with that

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feeling of content which one might have
on returning to the home of one's child-
hood after a long absence, and again
inhabiting the room where one slept as
a boy. I leave the window open and
put out the light. And in my dreams
there mingles the noise of the brook
rushing down the hillside, and the
croaking of the frogs in the distant
meadows.

II

A DAY IN THE MONASTERY

I WAS awake the next morning at a little
before six o'clock. There was a knock
at the door, and a voice said : " E tempo
di Messa!" (It is time for Mass.) I
heard the birds twittering outside the
window ; and, on looking at my bed, I
saw that the counterpane was covered
with cotton of a yellow flowery pattern,
— what excessive elegance ! The room
itself was floored with flagstones, not
with boards, like the rest of the mon-
astery.

I began to dress; but in a few
moments the cook, who had called
me, came back and said : " Signor
Giovanni, the Mass is beginning." I

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hastily thrust my arms into my coat
and hurried to the door, which Brother
Humilitas pointed out to me. I found
that my room was very near the
church ; I did not notice that the
evening before. I had only to go
through the little library; close to
the library door was the entrance to
the church — to that section of it at
least which was in front of the altar;
the choir, where prayers were said
the previous evening, was behind it.

I entered. Father Silverio was stand-
ing before the altar. Brother Secondo
was kneeling in one of the ancient
stalls. Behind the choir screen, some
of the gay handkerchiefs which Italian
peasant women are wont to wear on
their heads were dimly discernible in
the half-light. After the priest's Com-
munion, two of the peasant girls came

forward to receive Holy Communion;
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PILGRIM WALKS

they remained for a long time kneeling
on the lowest step of the altar, motion-
less, in an attitude of recollection and
devotion ; not a shadow of change
passed over their strongly marked,
regular features.

On returning to my room, I opened
the window which Brother Humilitas
had shut when he came to tidy the
apartment. The wind blew in cold ;
the sky was overcast; heavy clouds
hung over the lofty mountains, whose
grey flanks were planted with olive
trees and vines, leafless as yet. The
town of Greccio lay far off on the other
side of the valley. Walking along the
road which led thither, I could see three
brown-clad figures ; they were the three
Fathers on their way to the village,
where someone had died during the
night.

In the refectory a cup of black coffee

36

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

was served to me, with some slices of
toast. Brother Humilitas, who waited
on me, in his haste accidentally let the
bread fall to the ground. On putting
it away, he kissed it, as if to ask its
forgiveness. Later on I noticed that
before every meal the young novices
always kissed the piece of bread which
was placed under their serviette. This
reverence for our daily bread, and
indeed for all that appertains to our
earthly existence, or promotes or
benefits life, is truly Franciscan. The
spirit of the Order is essentially one of
reverence ; the veneration and love
due to God is extended to all His
creatures for His sake.

I soon left the refectory and ad-
journed to the library, next to my
bed-chamber. There in simple presses,
behind wire netting, were hundreds of

volumes, both Latin and Italian, bound
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PILGRIM WALKS

in parchment. I took down several
of them, amongst others a small,
beautifully printed collection of St
Bonaventure's lesser writings. I opened
it at random, and read an edifying
description of "The Different Grades
and Works of Humility."

After replacing the little volume in
the press, I went again to the window.
The clouds had come down on the
grey mountains, and would soon hide
the town of Greccio from view. The
country looked bare and deserted ; no
one was to be seen save a solitary
peasant down in the valley, walking
slowly along under a huge green
umbrella. The fog was quite dense
outside the window where I was
standing. Not a sound was to be
heard except the heavy downpour of
the rain. I was a prisoner in my

monastic solitude.

38

IN FEANCISCAN ITALY

I looked at my watch ; it was only
half-past nine. It was cold in my
room, so I put on my overcoat and
began to walk up and down. But
there was no space to move about in
the narrow apartment ; and finally,
with ice-cold feet and benumbed
fingers, I seated myself in front of
the small, rickety writing-table in the
library. Before me various books
and pamphlets were lying; among
them was one which excited my in-
terest— a work by Padre Benedetto
Spila, entitled, The Reformed Fran-
ciscan Monasteries in the Roman
Province.

By reform in the Franciscan Order,
a reform of discipline, not of doctrine,
is, of course, to be understood. Each
century has witnessed such reforms,
necessitated by the constant propensity

of fallen man to fix a lower standard
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PILGKIM WALKS

for himself. Even during the lifetime
of St Francis there were some of his
younger disciples who desired the
austerity of the Rule to be relaxed,
particularly in respect to the strict
evangelical poverty which the Saint
required his followers to observe.
After his death the Order was divided
into two camps : the Conventuals, or
relaxed; and the Spirituals, or the
monks of the strict observance. These
latter rallied round the senior friars
— the compagni of the Saint — and
most of all round Brother Leo, the
confessor, secretary, confidant and
intimate friend of Francis, the living
fount of pure and genuine Fran-
ciscan traditions ; and to them, at
their petition, were handed over the
oldest and poorest houses of the Order
— loco, paupercula, nee minus devota —
poor little places, but for that none

40

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

the less sacred. Life here at Greccio
is restricted to the simplest wants ;
there is little to mark the days as
they pass : prayer, work, such refresh-
ment of the body as is absolutely
necessary — this is all, besides the
pure, quiet happiness of living together
in brotherly love ; or, as an old Fran-
ciscan writer expresses it, "through
Francis to be one in Christ."

Several hours passed quickly by
whilst I was studying Padre Spila's
book. One has abundance of time
for work in a religious house : first,
the long morning and forenoon, from
eight o'clock, when one has had coffee,
until a quarter to twelve, when the
bell rings for prayers in the choir and
afterwards for the midday meal; then
the whole afternoon, until the Angelus
rings at about a quarter- past seven,

when all assemble for prayers in the
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PILGRIM WALKS

church. And after supper, and recrea-
tion in the common room, there is still
time that can be made use of before
going to bed. No wonder, then, that
voluminous works like those of the
Benedictine monks, or the Annals
of the friar's Minor, have been
compiled in the cloister.

After dinner I lay down to sleep
awhile. A siesta forms part of the
daily routine of a well-ordered monastery.
Moreover, the weather was still incle-
ment and rough ; the wind had risen and
was driving the rain in sheets across the
deserted plain. Towering above the
cultivated mountain-sides, clothed with
verdant fields, still leafless oaks, and
poplars in their fresh young green, the
naked mountain -ridge rose bleak and
grey, washed clean by heavy rains and
furrowed by many a small watercourse.

On awaking from my midday slumber,

42

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

I found that the rain had ceased. It
had made a vast lake of the meadows in
the valley. There were now gleams of
bright sunshine, which gilded the distant
towers of Bieti or illumined the reddish-
brown hills that shut in the valley on
the south.

I left my room and went into the
chapel, where I found Brother Secondo
on his knees, with a cat reposing at his
feet. The cat purred contentedly, while
Fra Secondo occasionally whispered a
word to her.

I slipped out again noiselessly, and
stepped on to the terrace before the
chapel. Going down a few steps, I
came to the little chapel erected on the
spot where the Crib once stood. It
was so dark inside that at first I could
see nothing ; but when my eyes became
accustomed to the darkness, I perceived
that I was in a small, vaulted room, and

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PILGRIM WALKS

that facing the door, and close to it, was
an altar, above which was a Madonna
of fourteenth-century work, with the
Divine Child and St Joseph. To the
left, in the darkest corner of all, was a
highly interesting fresco, representing
the Christmas night in Greccio when,
at St Francis' desire, Our Lord's
Nativity was solemnly celebrated in the
forest in as realistic a manner as
possible, in the presence of a great
crowd of devout worshippers. I ex-
amined the fresco closely by the light of
a candle, and was much charmed with
the countenance of the Saint ; the happy
smile, the almost lamb-like expression
resting on it, agrees well with what
Thomas of Celano says in the familiar
legend.

Another work of art, still more re-
markable than the fresco, is preserved

in the monastery of Greccio. It is a

44

IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

portrait of St Francis painted in his
lifetime, by command of the Lady
Giacoma dei Settecoli. The Father
Guardian took me to see it. It is
placed above the altar of a small chapel
opening out of the entrance hall of the
monastery, and concealed by a curtain.
The figure of the Saint is short and
slight, the countenance emaciated and
worn ; all the stigmata are plainly
marked, excepting that of the left hand,
which holds a handkerchief to the face.
In this same chapel are preserved a few
relics of St Francis. A small devotional
picture, which he was in the habit of
carrying about with him, is interesting
as testifying to his love for the Christmas
festival. It is an enamel painting of the
Blessed Virgin and St Joseph adoring
the new-born infant Jesus. Beside it
stands a small, extremely simple brass
crucifix, as well as two equally unpre-

45

PILGRIM WALKS

tentious brass candlesticks which were
used whenever Brother Leo, or any other
priest of the order, said Mass for
Brother Francis.

While visiting the curiosities of the
monastery, the Father Guardian took
me to the cell formerly inhabited by the
Saint — a room now perfectly dark, a
wall having been built before it ; origin-
ally it was a cavern in the rock. In
order to give me a better idea of what
the cell was, my guide led me up above
the convent, through a narrow path
that ran along the face of the rock.
There he opened a trapdoor in the
ground, gathered his brown habit
closely round him, and descended some
rough steps hewn in the live rock. I
followed him, and we found ourselves
standing in the cave where Blessed
John of Parma shut himself up for
thirty-two years, to pray, fast, and do

46

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

penance. It is a kind of gigantic, cup-
like shell, formed by Nature's hand, set
upright and built into the rock. It is
not high enough for a man to stand up
in, and how any one could contrive to
sleep there is incomprehensible, as it
would be impossible to stretch oneself
out in it. Seeing this grotto, I under-
stood why Giotto always represents the
disciples of St Francis in such strange
postures when sleeping — crouched
down, their back bent, their knees
drawn up. May we not conclude that
the artist, himself a Franciscan Tertiary,
visited these lowly hermitages, and care-
fully observed the manner of life of
those brethren who kept up the tradi-
tions of the heroic age of the Order ?

In front of the cell, on a projection
of the rock, stands a tiny chapel, or
rather a short, narrow, open portico,

with an altar at one end and a stone

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PILGRIM WALKS

bench at the other, and above a scanty
roof resting on wooden pillars. From
this spot one has a most magnificent
and extensive view over the vale of
Kieti. At the moment of which I
speak, it was wrapped in a light, warm
haze of ethereal blue. There, at that
altar, Father Pacifico told me, Blessed
John of Parma said Mass daily. A
lay-brother used to come down to
minister to him. One day when the
brother failed to make his appearance,
an angel took his place, and served the
Mass.

At my request, Father Pacifico left
me alone in the tiny chapel A bit of
wall with a low door in it shuts it off
from the grotto, into which I returned,
to gaze once more with amazement and
almost horror at the bare, rugged rock
which for thirty-two years formed the
bed of the sainted friar. And when I

48

IN FEANCISCAN ITALY

emerged again into the light — that
wondrous light wherein the setting sun
of Italy bathes mountain and valley —
I tried to realise what was the life led
by Blessed John, and many other
solitaries both in earlier and later times.
That very morning, while it was rain-
ing, my time had hung heavy on my
hands, and I had thought it a grievance
to sit shut up in a small, unheated room,
and read hour after hour, shivering with
cold. How should I have relished
being, not in the sheltered cell of a
convent, surrounded by books, but in an
open grotto, exposed to the rage of the
elements, myself barefoot, clad in a
tattered habit, my library consisting of
a Breviary and a crucifix ? And, then,
to live there not for a few days or
weeks but year after year, for a whole
lifetime ! It is almost impossible for

the ordinary Christian to imagine a life
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PILGRIM WALKS

of such self- mortification, such extra-
ordinary fervour.

While we were sitting round the fire
on the evening of that day, Father
Pacifico brought in a relic which I had
heard was in his possession : the much
talked of iron for making Hosts which
St Francis gave to the monastery of
Greccio. It consists of two round plates
of iron, somewhat resembling tongs,
with a long handle on each side, and is
considered a curiosity as well as a
precious relic of the Saint. It was
passed from hand to hand as we sat
there, and I closely examined the stamp
on one of the two circular plates. The
design on the upper surface of the altar
breads is now usually either a crucifix,
an Agnus Dei, or the monogram I. H. S.
But neither of these is on this thirteenth-
century mould : only nourishes and
some letters, which none of those

50

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

present seemed able to explain. So far
as I could discern in the fitful firelight,
the letters appeared to be the first
three letters of the name of Jesus in
Greek— I. H. C.— the bar of the H
having been omitted, it would seem, for
the sake of the ornamental flourishes.

My time at Greccio was now almost
at an end. I had been there three days,
and on the morrow I must move on.
The evening meal was finished, and we
had been in the chapel to give thanks.
Before supper I heard for the last time
the cheery voices of the three Fathers
call to me across the table, after the
friendly Franciscan custom : " Buona
sera, Signor Giovanni, e buon appetite ! "
And while in the chapel I heard for the
last time the curfew bell ring out over
the valley — the bell whose iron tongue
was afterward silent until it rang out
next morning to call us to the early Mass.

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PILGRIM WALKS

This was the last evening that Fra
Giuseppe would shovel up the glowing
embers from the hearth for my warming-
pan ; and I fancied he conducted me to
my room and brought me hot water
more ceremoniously than before. Then
he went away ; and I opened my
window as on my first night at Greccio,
and leaned out. No stars were to be
seen : all was shrouded in darkness ;
only in the far distance I could discern
a glimpse of the electric light in Rieti.

On the following morning I was
awakened by the sound of the bell
ringing for first Mass. It was a
quarter past five. I rose at once. It
had rained during the night, but the
clouds were clearing off; the sun shone
brightly over the verdant plain below,
and the birds were singing in the
convent garden. Through the library,
the door of which Era Giuseppe must

52

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

have left open the night before, the
Father Guardian's voice reached my
ear : " Gloria in excelsis Deo ! " I
hastened into the chapel.

After Mass I bade farewell to my little
room, to the library, and to the lovely
view of the town of Rieti and the
undulating hills beyond, seen from its
two small windows. The Father
Guardian came to the refectory to say
good-bye, and I took leave of Brother
Humilitas. I did not see the others.
Then down I regretfully went by the
same steps, on the same path up which
I had come only three days before —
could it possibly not have been longer
ago ! On my way I met peasants
going up to hear Mass — boys and
young men, with handsome, innocent-
looking faces, clear olive complexions,
black eyes and hair ; sturdy, well-set-up,
well-mannered young fellows. I could

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not help thinking it would be no bad
exchange for me were I as good a man,
as good a Catholic as these simple sons
of the soil.

Presently I came down into the
valley, past the spring where the women
were washing linen three days ago.
Again and again I turned to look back
at the monastery, at its olive-tinted
walls, and the new part which is white.
At last, as I got farther down the
ravine, it disappeared behind the wood
of oak and laurel. Out beyond in the
wide plain the rain of last night had
left big expanses of water ; their surface
gleamed like burnished silver. The air
began to feel warm. I had to quicken
my pace in order to reach Rieti in time
for the train. As I went on I heard
once more from afar the strangely
solemn sound of the Greccio bells.

Ill

FONTE COLOMBO : LA FORESTA : A SABINE
FESTIVAL

IN the afternoon of the day on which
my visit to Greccio ended, I started on
a fresh pilgrimage, my destination being
the monastery of Monte, or Fonte
Colombo. The mountain was origin-
ally known as Monte Rainerio, on
account of the many clear, cold springs
that take their rise there ; but St
Francis, foreseeing that a great number
of his sons would draw water from
those springs, called the place Fons
Columbarum (Fount of Doves) ; and
the monastery he founded there bears
that name to this day.

It was two o'clock when I passed

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PILGRIM WALKS

out of the Porta Romana, in Rieti. At
a short distance from the town I turned
off to the right, following a road which
led me first along the foot of high,
barren, precipitous limestone rocks;
then upward, over wooded heights,
where blue anemones and purple
violets grew in profusion between the
tree trunks. I asked my way of
different people, and gradually got
higher up among the mountains.
Soon I left hamlets and fields behind
me. The way led over a barren space
of pebbles and flint stones, and over
wide, rough, rugged places; tiny rivu-
lets, clear as crystal, welled out of the
ground. The narrow, stony path ran
along the verge of a deep gorge, at
the bottom of which a mountain
stream, swollen by the rain, was rush-
ing noisily. On the other side of the

gorge rose another mountain, clothed
56

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

with forest; on its summit were build-
ings and a small bell tower. It was
Fonte Colombo.

I walked on, following the path
mechanically. The whole mountain
overflowed now with clear, trickling
streams. There was nothing for it but
to wade through them. This was in
very truth a mount of springs — Fonte
Colombo !

I paused a moment and looked back.
From the crest which I had reached
I could see, far down below, the lesser
crags, the verdure-clad plain intersected
by white roads, the grey towers of
Bieti ; and behind Eieti, the lofty
Abruzzi, partly shrouded in indigo-
coloured clouds, partly glinting in
sharply denned sunbeams. In the vast
solitude, not a sound was to be heard
except the gurgling of the stream at

the foot of the declivity.
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PILGEIM WALKS

The road descended all the way to
that stream, and then ascended again
on the other side. A flight of steps
cut in the mountain-side somewhat
facilitated the last steep ascent; and,
after having walked continuously for
two hours, I at last found myself
standing before the convent, on a
wide green space hedged round with
box, in the centre of which was a
wooden cross painted red — the Fran-
ciscan cross, such as one always sees
in front of the houses of the Grey
Friars.

I stood still for a few minutes to
take breath and look about me. At
the left of the monastery I descried
a closed gate, which apparently takes
to the rear of the building ; over it
is a Latin inscription — the words which
Jehovah spoke to Moses out of the

burning bush: "Put off the shoes
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

from thy feet ; for the place whereon
thou standest is holy ground." The
impression made by the sight of these
words was so forcible, so solemn, in
the midst of this wild, desolate soli-
tude, high up between the vast moun-
tains, that I felt as if I must obey the
command. Those who have travelled
in mountainous regions will understand
me ; for there is something about the
grandeur of the mountains which
impresses one with a sense of the
majesty and greatness of God more
strongly than anything else in nature.
No wonder that Francis of Assisi
returned ever and anon to the mountain
solitudes, to hold converse with the
Almighty.

I had ample leisure to make these
reflections; for although I rang the
monastery bell repeatedly, I could not
gain admittance. The Brothers must

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surely have been taking their siesta.
At length, however, I heard the
familiar sound of the wooden sandals
on the flagstones. I rang again — rang
loudly. In a few minutes I was seated
in the refectory, taking some refresh-
ment which the vivacious, smiling,
young Father Guardian, Padre Gio-
vanni da Greccio, offered me.

As soon as I had appeased my
hunger, the Father Guardian proposed
that we should visit the Sanctuarium,
the hallowed spot where Francis
prayed, fasted, and wrote the Rule.
We passed through the door over
which I had seen the inscription ; a
narrow path led alongside the mon-
astery walk, on which the Stations of
the Cross were erected ; on the side
overlooking the declivity, the path is
protected by a low parapet.

We stopped first at a small Gothic
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

chapel, said to be the oratory dedicated
in honour of the Blessed Virgin,
mentioned in the old chronicle ; within
it are the remains of some fresco
paintings. We then descended, by
some zigzag steps, to the hallowed spot
itself. The steep rock hangs over the
abyss. On a level with the tops of the
trees — evergreen oaks, elms, and maples
— which grow in the chasm below, are
the entrances to two grottoes (the one
inhabited formerly by Brother Leo, the
other by St Francis), which reach
into the interior of the rock.

A wooden balcony projecting over
the abyss leads into St Francis' her-
mitage. First comes a small chapel,
one side of which is the live rock. A
strong stone wall of rough masonry
protects the narrow ledge of rock
which constituted the Saint's sleeping-
place. A trapdoor in the ground

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PILGRIM WALKS

conducts down to his oratory — his
most private, secret chamber. It is
simply a chasm in the rock, open at
both ends, and so narrow that one
touches both walls at every movement.

The farther end opens out upon the
valley ; the declivity is abrupt and pre-
cipitous, till the mountain-side is lost
to sight in the depths of the forest below.
Almost involuntarily one keeps still
in this place, the solemn silence of the
solitude is so impressive. We stood
there motionless for some time. Out-
side, the wind roared in the forest;
one heard the river rushing below, and
the splash of the falling rain — the
same three voices which Francis heard
during the nights and days he spent
there in solitary prayer, nearly seven
hundred years ago.

We ascended again to the convent,
and the Father Guardian locked the

62

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

door through which we passed. Point-
ing to the words above it, he said with
a smile : " Pope Sixtus IV. obeyed
that admonition literally. He was a
Franciscan himself, so to go barefoot
was no novelty to him."

Our visit to the grottoes in the rock
took rather a long time ; the afternoon
sun, nearing the horizon, poured its
golden light on the space before the
house. Two white goats were feeding
there ; one of them went up to the
Father Guardian, bleating gently, to be
caressed.

After night prayers and supper, I
took my seat with the four Fathers of
the monastery for the accustomed hour
of recreation. It seems not to be the
custom here, as at Greccio, to assemble
round the fire, but in the Father
Guardian's cell. It was a good-sized

room, and there was space for us all.
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PILGRIM WALKS

The monastery of Fonte Colombo is on
a much a larger scale than that of
Greccio ; for it is one of the novitiates
of the Order. I saw the novices while
we were at supper, sitting by the old
brown walls of the refectory, in two
long rows, their eyes piously cast
down. What nice faces they had !
I looked at them well as they passed
out, two and two together, close to
where I was sitting. What youthful
purity and innocence !

The evening passed in conversation
with the Fathers. When ten o'clock
struck, I was alone in my room. It
was a dark night; white, lustreless
clouds hung over the mountains. Not
a sound was heard but the gurgle of
the stream in the ravine below.

Part of the following morning was
passed indoors, studying one of the
vellum-bound books in which Sabatier

64

IN FEANCISCAN ITALY

writes of the "Poverello," the Poor
Man of Assisi. Later on, I was out of
doors, under the fairest of skies enjoy-
ing the bright sunshine, watching the
shadows of the clouds as they flitted
over the limestone rocks, deepening the
already dark shades of the woods on
the mountain-side — the only sombre
spots in the landscape. In the far
distance, I could descry the belfry of
the town of Greccio ; and yet farther
away, the white walls of its solitary
monastery. Meanwhile I was sitting
with my back against a huge block of
moss-grown rock. About me forget-
me-nots and anemones rose out of the
moss and turf. On the summits of the
mountains was the glitter of freshly
fallen snow, yet where I was sitting the
sun was almost hot.

In the afternoon I again visited St
Francis' Grotto in the company of all

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PILGRIM WALKS

the inmates of the monastery. It was
Saturday, and it is the custom at Fonte
Colombo on that day, shortly before
sunset, to commemorate "the passing
away of St Francis."

In remembrance of his last hour, we
all — old and young, Fathers and
novices, lay-brothers, and myself, a
stranger — went from the church to the
little chapel over St Francis' rocky
cell. Two and two the long line of
brown-habited figures filed along the
path beside the monastery wall, and
descended the long flight of steps.
The Father Guardian was immediately
in front of me ; with his clear, powerful
voice he led the singing, which was
taken up by the strong young voices.
The melody was a peculiar one — at
the same time mournful and jubilant.
The Latin words were very simple.

At length we reached the sanctuary.
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

It was completely filled, as was also the
wooden gallery before it. Everyone
knelt. Presently, amid dead silence,
while the wind whispered in the tops of
the trees in the glen below, the Father
Guardian raised his voice, pronouncing
every word distinctly and carefully, as
if no syllable must be lost : " Voce mea
ad Dominum clamavi." It was the
same psalm that Francis recited on his
deathbed. The Brothers responded,
reciting the verses alternately with
the Guardian. After the last verse.
"Me expectant justi," solemn, impressive
silence again prevailed, until the voices
of all present joined in chanting the
beautiful antiphon in honour of St
Francis :

"Hail, holy Father, light of thy
country, pattern of the Friars Minor,
mirror of virtue, path of justice,

rule of life, lead us from the exile
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of the body unto the kingdom of
heaven ! "

Then the procession filed back to the
church, in the tranquil eventide, up the
steps, alongside the wall, across the
greensward, the whole scene flooded
with the golden radiance of the setting
sun. In the twilight of the church,
where all knelt, the Litany of the
Blessed Virgin was sung, concluding
with the hymn of praise which long
centuries ago the Franciscans were
wont to recite in honour of the
Immaculate Mother of God :

" Tota pulchra es, Maria" chanted
the deep voices from one side of the
choir.

" Tota pulchra es, Maria," responded
the clear boyish voices on the other
side. Thus each versicle is chanted
to the end :

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

"Intercede pro nobis ad Dominum
Jesum Christum."

The next morning, which was
Sunday, I arose at a very early hour.
As I crossed the courtyard of the
monastery on my way to the church,
the paving-stones where still wet with
the dew of night. I heard Mass
amongst a crowd of peasants, whose
countenances were like rough sketches,
carved in wood, of the Fathers and
novices, before the master-hand had
begun to finish his work, to idealize
and refine the features and expres-
sion.

At half-past nine, after standing for
some time on the balcony before my
room, gazing on the lovely view, I took
my departure from Fonte Colombo.
On the greensward outside the church
and monastery, groups of peasants,

who had come up for a later Mass,
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were sitting or standing about and
chatting. The Father Guardian ac-
companied me a little way beyond the
gate, and pointed out the distant
goals of my next pilgrimages on the
other side of the valley — there the
Convent of La Foresta ; and yonder,
high up in the mountains, the lonely
hermitage of Poggio Buscone.

Then I bade him farewell, and went
on my way down the steep, stony paths
into the valley, and up again on the
opposite side. All round me the grey
mountains rose ; in the foreground
was the glittering crest of Monte
Terminillo, almost the highest in Italy.
At a turn in the road, I looked back
and cast a last glance at Fonte
Colombo, with its monastery, which I
had just left, perched on the highest
peak of the thickly wooded mountain.

The little bell turret stood out sharply
70

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

against the sky. In the glen, the
river flowed at the foot of the wood
which surrounds the sanctuary, II
Bosco Sacro— "The Holy Wood," as
the people call it. The atmosphere
was warm and soft. I was once more
down in the valley, amongst the habita-
tions of men.

The next goal of my pilgrimage was
La Foresta, which is about five miles
from Eieti, and situated in the midst
of a beautiful, extensive forest of oaks
and chestnuts. This hallowed spot
was the scene of the famous miracle
of the multiplication of the grapes.
Thither I now directed my steps.

It was noontide ; the sun was
scorching ; a hot haze rested on the
mountains. I left the highroad and
took a side-path, following the course
of a mountain stream which had

hollowed out a bed for itself deep
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PILGRIM WALKS

down between high earth-banks. Then
I went through a valley exposed to the
full blaze of the noonday sun ; in it
were leafless oaks, and great masses of
bluish rock projecting out of the red
earth and green grass ; the path was
a continual ascent. Thinking I must
have nearly reached my destination,
I inquired of some labourers, and
heard that it was still distant. The
road winds round a mountain, afford-
ing extensive views over the plain.
At last I met a kindly peasant who
undertook to act as my guide.

The way now led through a forest of
oak trees by the side of a sheltered,
grass-grown slope. At a turn in the
road my companion pointed out Poggio
Buscone, a dark spot among the dis-
tant mountains. Presently the path
grew less steep, and before long we

came in sight of a low, much-dilapi-

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

dated wall, behind which was the
monastery of La Foresta.

Under the monastery porch I took
leave of my guide, and soon the door
was opened to me. While the porter
took in my letter of introduction, I
stood awaiting his return out in the
courtyard. It consisted of four covered
corridors surrounding a yard flagged
with stone, on a somewhat higher
level, having a well in the centre.
Stretching upward above the corridors
were four long, high roofs, their red
tiles almost bleached by the hot sun,
while over them was the deep-blue,
cloudless vault of heaven.

Whilst I waited there — whether it
was owing to the fatigue of my long
uphill walk, or the effect of the burn-
ing midday-sun, I know not — a
miserable feeling of depression took

possession of me. Doubt and despon-
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PILGRIM WALKS

dency filled my mind ; all my life, past
and present, seemed a hopeless failure,
the pursuit of a phantom — an ignis
fatuus. And yet how great a respon-
sibility rested on me ! All grew dark
before my eyes ; I no longer saw the
sunshine that flooded the courtyard
of La Foresta. Some one touched me
on the shoulder. I started. An
old friar was standing beside me.
Although the silvery hue of his thick
hair and full beard bespoke old age,
his strongly-marked, weather-beaten
features were lighted up by large,
singularly youthful eyes. Those clear
brown eyes rested on my countenance
with an expression of truly paternal
kindness, and a pleasant smile played
about his lips. He raised his skullcap.
"Father Angelo, at your service,"
he said. I grasped the hand he held

out to me — a strong, kind, fatherly

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

hand — as a shipwrecked mariner
might grasp the hand stretched out
to him over the edge of the boat that
had come to rescue him.

Father Angelo inspired me at once
with the greatest confidence ; and
when, a little later, I was sitting
alone with him, I felt no hesitation in
pouring out my heart to him, certain
that I should find in him a friend, a
father who would listen to my woes
and direct me aright. Nor was I
mistaken. When I had finished my
confession, and listened to his kindly,
wise exhortation, peace, confidence and
courage had returned to my soul.
Doubt and difficulty were banished ;
and when we stepped out again into
the courtyard, the sun shone brightly,
and above the roofs the sky was blue.

We passed into the garden, Father

Angelo and I, and stood looking out
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PILGRIM WALKS

over the valley. The monastery garden
is laid out in terraces on the mountain-
side— wide, grass-grown terraces, in
which red roses and purple rosemary
bloom, and where olives, pines, and
cypresses raise their crests to the sky.
Involuntarily I lingered in the garden,
enjoying the pure air and fresh breeze ;
but Father Angelo insisted on taking
me into the vineyard to show me the
old, half-dead vine which is said to
date from the time that St Francis
was there. This year it had sent out
three small, tender shoots.

From the garden we proceeded to
the church, where beneath the altar was
the vessel, la vasca — the press in which
the miraculous grapes were pressed.
"The priest could hardly have made
his wine in the church," the old
Franciscan said smilingly. "We must

suppose that the presbytery stood here
76

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

originally, and later on it formed part of
the church. The legend asserts," he
added, " that Pope Gregory IX. himself
came from Rieti to witness the miracle."
We then went out into the sunshine
again. The old friar escorted me
through the garden, down one terrace
after the other. I plucked a few wild
flowers which were growing in the
grass ; and when he saw this, he
gathered a bunch of roses and rosemary
for me. At the lowest garden gate he
bade me farewell, and I went on alone
down the stony path. When I had
gone a little distance, I turned and
looked up : he was standing at the gate
looking after me. I took off my hat
and waved a greeting ; then I saw him
returning slowly to the monastery. On
getting quite up to the door, he turned
once more ; I sent him a last salutation,

which he returned ; then he went into

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PILGRIM WALKS

the house. Farewell, good Father
Angelo ! - - my kind, fatherly friend,
farewell !

As I pursued my solitary way down
the mountain, I soon lost sight of La
Foresta, and found myself in a wild
ravine, between massive rocks. A new
and curious scene presented itself.
Before me lay a small village in festive
garb ; I saw a gay crowd, and heard
the hum of voices. I made my way to
the square before the church, where I
was surrounded by the white headgear,
trimmed with lace, and the many-
coloured kerchiefs and dresses of the
peasant women and girls. I had come
in for a Sabine popular festival.

I naturally attracted some attention,
with my black hat, my eyeglasses, and
my travelling-bag. But there was no
vulgar, open-mouthed staring ; the good

people certainly looked at the stranger,

78

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

exchanged a remark with a neighbour,
laughed a little, and then turned their
faces again in the direction of the
church, whence they evidently expected
something to issue. And, in fact, I
soon heard the voice of singing, and out
of the semi-darkness of the sacred
edifice a banner of Our Lady emerged
into the sunlight. It was borne aloft
by a stalwart priest, and followed by a
troop of young girls dressed in white,
and then by a crowd of women in the
costume of the countryside, looking like
a bed of tulips. The men — some tall
and slim, others short and thickset —
who had been standing somewhat apart,
now fell into the ranks, and a proces-
sion was formed.

I was just hesitating whether I
should join them when the crowd fell
back to make way for a sturdy, rosy-
faced young man, wearing spectacles
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and town habiliments. He came up to
me, and, raising his hat, inquired
courteously, with a glance at my bag,
whether I was perhaps wishing to take
some photographs. I answered in the
negative. " Ah, then," he said, a gleam
of intelligence lighting up his features,
"you have come for the sake of St
Francis ! " I assented, and a conversa-
tion ensued. He introduced himself to
me as the son of the syndic, or mayor
of Poggio Buscone.

"Poggio Buscone is the very place
to which I am going ! " I ex-
claimed.

"In that case, I advise you to join the
procession here. These people come
from Poggio Buscone ; they have made
a pilgrimage here, and now are returning
home. Thus you shall have travelling
companions, and will be sure not to
lose your way. If you will allow me,

80

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

I shall see that your bag is carried for

you."

He took the bag out of my hand and
disappeared. In a moment he returned,
but now mounted on a magnificent
horse, with my bag strapped across
his shoulders. The Mayor's son was,
himself, actually going to take charge
of the strange gentleman's property !
He gave me a patronizing nod ; then,
with a wave of the hand made the
signal to start, and the procession
moved on. It was then past three
o'clock.

We now proceeded by a narrow,
stony path alongside the mountain. I
wondered how it was possible to ride
on such a road ; but the large, well-
groomed horse stepped cautiously and
surely over the loose stones and masses
of rock.

The banner of the Madonna led the

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PILGRIM WALKS

way, followed by the girls in white ;
then came a crucifix, after which the
men walked ; next a brass band
composed of twelve musicians, and
finally a long retinue of both sexes.
When the music stopped, the girls sang
a monotonous, unvarying strain, in
which the same refrain came over and
over again :

Evivva Maria e chi la creo !
Evivva Maria e chi la creo !

All the forenoon they had sung in this
same fashion on the way thither, and
they would continue to do so until we
reached Poggio Buscone at a late hour
in the evening. The distance was
thirteen kilometres * there, and as many
back.

When we had covered a good part
of the way, the mayor's son brought

* About eight miles.
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

his horse to my side. "Every year,"
he told me, "when the young girls of
the parish make their First Communion,
the inhabitants of Poggio Buscone
perform this pilgrimage to San Felice.
It is not so much a religious festival as
a popular festivity, and the municipal
authorities provide the music. Con-
sequently not the clergy but the
municipality is represented in it. It
is a festival to which the people look
forward all the year ; and to-day it
has been especially joyous, for it may
be that St Felix has wrought a miracle
for us." Thus the young man con-
cluded, and then rode forward to give
orders to the musicians.

The rough path led us over hill and
vale, between the gnarled stems of
silver-grey olives, beneath the oak
forest which clothes the slope : across

big, barren, stony fields ; then suddenly
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PILGRIM WALKS

through fertile valleys where the apple
trees were in blossom. As the road
sank, the procession displayed itself
before me in all its many-coloured
splendour.

Gradually I made aquaintance with
a few of the pilgrims. Now and again
one came up to me and began to talk,
as we walked along the mountain -side.
Far down at our feet lay the vale of
Rieti half shrouded in blue haze.
Some lakes could be seen glittering in
the sunlight through the mist ; I was
told the names of them, but I have
forgotten all except one — the Lake
of Piediluco.

Soon we came in sight of a town
that was built on successive stages of
the mountain -side. The church steeples
rose up above the grey roofs of the
houses. I asked one of my new friends

what was the name of the town. He

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

answered : " Cantalice ! " — " Not Poggio
Buscone, then ? " — " It is a long way
still to Poggio Buscone," he said, with
a smile. "One can not even see it
yet." Then he began to tell me about
Cantalice.

"It is a very ancient town, built on
the declivity of the mountain. From
one row of houses you can step on to
the roof of another. That old massive
tower on the height is the fortress in
which the inhabitants used to take
refuge in former times on the approach
of an enemy. Over the gateway is this
inscription, Fides Cantalica me con-
struxit. ('Cantalice's fidelity built
me.') All the inhabitants joined in the
work of building. And the big church
on the top of the mountain, with the
square before it, is San Felice, where
St Felix of Cantalice is interred."

I remembered having seen a picture

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of that Saint — an old man with a white
beard, carrying on his back a mendicant's
wallet. On the wallet were the words,
Deo gratias, which were frequently on
his lips. And now I had come quite
unexpectedly to the birthplace of that
remarkable man — to Cantalice. We
were soon in its streets, and, traversing
the square, entered the church, where I
witnessed a scene that I shall never
forget.

The mayor's son had hinted, while
talking on the way, at a miracle which
it was thought San Felice might perform
that day. The case was that of a young
woman in poor circumstances, who had
been lame for several years, and whom
her father and her husband had taken
with them on the pilgrimage, in the
hope that she might obtain a cure.
While on the spot where I first came

upon the procession, she imagined that

86

IN FEANCISCAN ITALY

she felt better, and now she was being
carried to the Saint's burial place, in
order to complete the cure that appeared
to have begun.

In a niche behind the altar, over St
Felix's grave, is a gigantic statue of the
Saint, hung all over with glittering votive
hearts. Between the statue and the
wall of the choir there is a space about
seven feet wide by five feet long.
Thither the sick woman had been
brought ; and a dense crowd of people
had flocked in after her, so that the
building was literally packed. Two wax
tapers had been lighted before the
image — that of an old white-bearded
man, with a kindly smile, tenderly hold-
ing in his arms the infant Jesus.
Before the statue the invalid was half-
sitting, half-kneeling, supported by her
grey-haired father and black-haired

husband, all three having their eyes

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fixed entreatingly on the Saint. Their
prayers were audible, and found an echo
and response in the multitude.

At first I did not quite understand it
all. I thought that something wonder-
ful had already happened ; for just as I
came up, I heard the people cry aloud :
Grazie, San Felice! ("Thanks, St
Felix ! ") This expression of thanks
was repeated again and again, inter-
rupted by long prayers which the sick
woman's old father recited, and which
all ended with a fervent, heartfelt
Grazie, grazie, San Felice !

After I had been standing there a
little while, I began to have a clearer
notion of what was going on. They
were not thanking the Saint for what he
had already done, but for that which
they hoped and expected him to do. A
moral compulsion, so to speak, was
being laid on him, by giving thanks to

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

him beforehand. He could not well do
otherwise than grant their petition.

I pushed my way as far forward as I
could — far enough, at any rate, to see
the patient. Her eyes had a feverish
look ; there was a hectic flush on her
cheeks ; ever and anon she bent forward
and pressed her burning lips to the feet of
the Saint; the kiss being followed by
the supplicating, sorrowful cry : " 0 San
Felice mio!" At last the bystanders
began to shake their heads. It was
evident that San Felice was not to be
persuaded. There was nothing more
to be done ; he was inexorable. So
the vast crowd gradually dispersed ;
almost all went to join the procession,
which was being formed again to pro-
ceed on its way.

But the patient, her father and her
husband, did not give up all hope.

They left the statue and knelt on the

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PILGRIM WALKS

steps of the altar, the old peasant
reciting with a trembling voice the
Salve Regina — "Hail, holy Queen,
Mother of mercy ! " After this he said
the Litany of Loreto, then a litany to all
the saints whose names he knew ; and,
when he had exhausted his repertoire,
winding up with one last, bitter cry, in
which the flame of hope seemed once
more to flare up as he called upon San
Felice.

At length we left Cantalice, after
having passed through it from top to
bottom ; it then rose above and behind
us like a pile of architecture. Just out-
side the town we halted again. On a
bridge over a river, whose bed was at
that time dry, refreshment was offered
us in the shape of cool, rather acid red
wine, which was served out as we sat
on the stone balustrade of the bridge.

While the pilgrims were resting, I
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IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

was introduced to the chief personages
in Cantalice— the mayor, who gave an
audience seated in a kind of gig, in
which he had driven out to see the
procession ; and also to the two parish
priests of the place, one of whom proved
to be well read in Franciscan literature.
Later on I made the acquaintance of the
leader of the procession — the stalwart
priest whom I saw in San Felice carry-
ing the banner of the Madonna ; he was
Don Severino, the archpriest of Poggio
Buscone. Finally up came a broad-
shouldered, ruddy-faced countryman,
who bowed, and introduced himself to
me as Nazareno Matteucci. " You must
let me put you up for the night," he said ;
" for I can tell you there is not a single
hotel in Poggio Buscone, arid the convent
is closed ; so I always entertain the
Brothers when they come over to us,

from La Foresta, for instance, as well
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as any strangers who chance to pass this
way."

I thanked him for his kind offer, but
took occasion to ask the son of the
mayor who my new friend was. He
gave him an excellent character.
" Nazareno is one of the most prominent
peasant propietors in Poggio Buscone,
a respectable and God-fearing man.
Two of his sons are Franciscans, one a
Capuchin ; a fourth, who is still quite
young, is in the seminary. He has two
daughters who are Poor Clares, and one
other son who is married and lives with
his parents."

The road now began to ascend up a
steep and rugged mountain. Again and
again I turned to look back at Cantatice,
whose grey houses had assumed a rose-
ate hue in the evening light, while the
windows began to glow brightly in the

rays of the setting sun. The girls were
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IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

singing the same strain with renewed
energy :

Evivva Maria e chi la creo !

Nazareno Matteucci again came up to
me and gave me an account of his
household ; remarking that I should not
feel the want of refined society there,
as he had a brother, Benedetto by name,
who had formerly studied for the priest-
hood— "he knows how to talk to a
gentleman like you."

The sun had set when we left San
Liberate, and in the plain the mist was
rising. In the growing darkness we
pursued our weary way between stone
ramparts, through olive groves, past
houses whose inmates came out to look
at us ; and at last, after five hours, the
girls in the van of the procession ceased
their monotonous song, and we came

out on a wide road bordered by houses.
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PILGKIM WALKS

This was Borgo San Pietro, a suburb of
Poggio Buscone.

Before long we were sitting at supper
in Nazareno's house. Beside me sat my
host, in his shirt sleeves, with his little
granddaughter on his knee. Opposite
me was his brother Benedetto, a tall,
thin man with a white beard ; last of
all, the married son, a man of about
twenty, with small, well-cut features.
There were no women at table with us.
The mistress of the house, Pasqua,
waited on us herself. A big, stout
woman, she went to and fro, heavy gold
earrings dangling from her ears, her
brown wrinkled neck half hidden by
the ample collar of her white bodice.

Pasqua was angry because Nazareno
had brought home a guest without
letting her know beforehand. He might
have sent someone on ahead — somares-
cando, riding on a donkey. Now she

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

had nothing to set before the strange
gentleman ! What would he think of
her? And Pasqua threw the horn-
handled knives down on the tablecloth
with such force that they literally danced.
Neither of the men, however, seemed to
take the least notice of her wrath.
Pasqua Matteucci was a good woman,
an excellent housewife, a kind mother
and grandmother toward her numerous
progeny. What matter it if she did
bluster a bit ? In the meantime we sat
quietly drinking some good wine with
our bread.

Benedetto was the chief talker. He
took possession of me immediately,
and monopolised my attention during
the whole evening. His nephew was
not allowed to interpose a word. All
at once Benedetto stopped speaking
and pointed to his brother. The

worthy man, overcome by fatigue, and
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the unusual amount of wine he had
drunk on the way, was fast asleep,
his ruddy face bent on his chest. His
little granddaughter had slipped off his
knee long ago, and run to her grand-
mother in the kitchen. Benedetto
shrugged his shoulders. "That is
always the way with Nazareno ! " he
said. "As soon as one begins to talk
about sensible subjects, he drops off
to sleep. May blessed Mary — her
name be praised for ever — protect the
man ! "

While we were talking, we did ample
justice to the good fare Pasqua had
set before us ; and now I, regardless
of the scorn Benedetto expressed for
sleepy people, expressed a wish to go
to bed. Accordingly I was conducted
into the guest chamber, which opened
out of the room in which we had been

sitting. It was a spacious apartment,
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IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

with two very high beds, chests of
drawers with crochet-work covers, a
three-legged washstand, a stand with
pegs for coats, and scraps of carpet
scattered about the stone floor. The
windows were fastened inside with a
wooden bar ; and young Matteucci,
who accompanied me, carrying a
candle, directed my attention to a
gun standing by the bedside. "It is
loaded," he said, laying an emphasis on
the "is." — "Is there any need for
that?" I asked. He smiled, said
nothing, but shrugged his shoulders,
as if to say it was well to be prepared
for any emergency.

I arose the next morning at seven.
On entering the dining-room, I found
Benedetto breakfasting on bread and
a glass of wine. Some hot milk was
served for me ; coffee is not to be had

here among the peasants. Benedetto
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PILGRIM WALKS

and I soon set off on the field path,
between green hedges, each of us
carrying a stick. We walked at a
good pace, glad to be out in the fresh
morning air, under the cloudless sky.
"An itinerant life," my companion said,
"is the best manner of life. It is the
Franciscan life, the Apostolic life."

We crossed the dry bed of a river, in
the midst of which a slender rivulet
ran rippling between the big boulders ;
and soon reached the archpriest's house
in the main street of the Borgo. We
found Don Severino somewhat indis-
posed in consequence of the long march
of the previous day ; but he soon made
ready to come with us. Outside in the
street, the mayor's son joined us; he
was then in his everyday clothes, but in
all other respects the same as when we
saw him last. His blue eyes smiled

pleasantly behind his gold-rimmed
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

glasses. He, too, was going with us
to Poggio Buscone.

It was still a long way to the goal
of my journey. Unaccustomed as I
was to mountaineering, I had imagined
that I could visit La Foresta and
Poggio Buscone in one day. But
climbing mountains is slow work. The
town, of which Borgo San Pietro is
only a suburb, was five hundred metres
above us ; and then one has to cover
an equal distance before reaching
L'Eremo, St Francis' Hermitage. It
is a very long walk, and all the way
uphill.

We began to ascend slowly. If one
has to climb a mountain, one must
not attempt to go quickly ; that is
one of the first rules for mountaineering.
After we had been walking for some
time, we entered one of the first stair-
way-like streets of Poggio Buscone,

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where children were basking in the
warm sunshine. Presently we got into
a maze of small, steep alleys, all
ascending more or less sharply. All
was of stone — houses, steps, streets.
Sometimes we walked over huge, rough
slabs of stone — that was the rock
jutting out into the street. It would
almost seem as if the whole town had
been hewn out of the rock, carved in
the rock — a mountain peak transformed
into human habitations.

Passing under a massive arch, we
came out onto the market square.
There we paused to rest awhile, and
gaze on the splendid view. Going on,
we descended through fresh labyrinths
of stone, sunless and chilly. On the
steps of the houses, women were sitting
at needlework; they looked up and
greeted the archpriest as he passed.

Then we came to the church — the

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IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

cathedral of the place ; it was being
restored. There was nothing of interest
about it. While we were inside, the
parish priest — a young, good-looking
man — came forward, with his Breviary
in his hand, wearing a thoroughly
worn-out cassock. We stood talking
with him for a little while on the steps
of the church.

What a strange life it must be for
this young priest ! Think of living
year after year, and all the year long, in
that poor little place perched up on
the height, intellectually alone, with
no other society than his Breviary,
no other solace than the church, no
other occupation than baptizing and
burying, visiting the sick and hearing
confessions, catechizing and preaching !
Never so much as a newspaper, and
seldom a new book ; for the salary is

too slender to admit of that. All the
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long winter through — and the winter
is very rigorous in those elevated
regions — no other fire than a brasier
to warm his benumbed fingers before
saying Mass ; an utter absence of all
comforts, not to speak of luxuries ;
scarcely a sufficiency of daily bread,
and a glass of thin wine — such is life
in a presbytery among the Sabine hills.

To-day is a gala day for the young
priest, since it brings visitors from
the lowlands. When we had been
standing and talking awhile, Don
Severino beckoned to one of the boys
who stood near, and sent him on an
errand. The lad soon returned with a
bottle of absinthe and some glasses ;
the liquor was poured out and the small
glasses emptied.

Bidding farewell to the priest, we
resumed our toilsome ascent, upward

and onward, and soon the town lay far

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below us. The landscape was spread
out at our feet like a map, on which
the blue lakes, green fields, and white
roads were plainly marked. All around
was silence and absence of life. Now
and again we saw a green lizard glide
over the sun-warmed rock, and once we
stopped to drink from a clear, cool
brook flowing past in its stony channel.
We went on climbing higher and
higher. The path had turned, and led
over a barren mountain ridge, beneath
which the hermitage was built. It was
now a perpetual zigzag of flights of
irregular steps. A succession of little
chapels stood by the roadside ; in one is
to be seen a piece of rock bearing the
footprint of St Francis ; in another, the
impress of his hand; in a third, the
depression made by his elbow when he
leaned on the rock. Benedetto eagerly

pointed out to me these remarkable
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relics. "The impression left by his
elbow, " he explained, " was made
when the Saint was on his way to
Poggio Buscone, and rested his head
on his hand while looking at the town.
He arrived there at three o'clock in the
morning ; that is why the bells of the
town are still rung at that hour on
October 4, St Francis' Day."

At last the path ceased to ascend.
We went on alongside the great,
bluish-grey wall of rock on the summit
of the mountain, whose highest peak
was still many hundred yards above us.
All at once, at a turn in the path, we
came in sight of the sanctuary toward
which we had so long been toiling. At
the extreme end of the path was a
very small chapel — II Santuario — with
a lean-to roof that slopes down from
the wall of rock, and supports on its
extreme edge a modest little turret, in

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

which a bell is suspended. A few ir-
regular steps, six or seven in number,
lead up to the door of the chapel. The
chapel itself is divided into two
sections — a lower and an upper one.
The lower is only a sort of porch, from
which a staircase ascends, beneath the
huge, projecting rock, to the actual
grotto, the Hermitage of St Francis.
Over the stairs are the words : Hie
remissa tibi sunt peccata tua sicut
postulasti — " Here thy sins [O Francis]
were forgiven thee according as thou
didst pray."

We mounted the narrow stairs,
taking care to stoop our heads in order
not to strike them against the hard
rock. A small altar is set up in the
grotto ; it is in a kind of alcove. The
altarpiece represents St Francis at
prayer, and Brother Giles asleep. The

ground of the chapel is the rock, but
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the altar is raised on a low wooden
platform, on which the priest can stand
when Mass is said there.

We lingered a few moments in
devout silence. Then the mayor's
son got up, put his walking-stick in a
loophole in the wall, and rang out a
succession of strokes on the bell
hanging in the tiny turret. It was
exactly noon; he rang the Angelus;
the notes sounded far and wide over
the valley.

Before leaving, I looked closely at
the chapel, the goal of so long a
journey. It actually consists of only a
roof and a wall, in which are three
small windows — three little loopholes—
and a cross formed of two round bits
of untrimmed branches. Poverty-
stricken as the chapel is now, it was
yet more so when St Francis knelt

there in prayer ; for then the hermitage
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

was nothing but a natural grotto in
the mountain, with no roof but the
overhanging rock, in the clefts of which
a few shrubs grow. In that desolate
solitude the Saint received the blissful
assurance that his sins were forgiven
him.

It had taken us three hours to come
up from Borgo San Pietro. The
return journey was accomplished far
more speedily. It was my intention,
that afternoon, to cross the vale of
Eieti to Greccio and go thence by
train to Terni.

On reaching Nazareno's house, Bene-
detto and I dined together. One
of the dishes was part of a young
lamb, cut up into very small pieces,
mere mouthfuls ; bones, cartilage, meat,
and all boiled together and served with
a piquant sauce. " There is very little

nourishment in it; one eats it because
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it is toothsome," said Benedetto, with
the air of an epicure.

While I was putting my things into
my bag, Pasqua came in and looked
on. "I am sorry that thou art going
away so soon, my son," she said to me.
"The socks thou didst take off this
morning want mending ; I was going to
mend them this afternoon." She went
with me to the outside flight of steps ;
we were speaking of the excursion
to the chapel that morning. "Yes,"
she said, " that is a place of which the
very atmosphere is holy — che spira
santita"

I then expressed my thanks for her
hospitality and took leave of her,
begging her to bid farewell for me to
Nazareno, who was out on the land.
Benedetto accompanied me part of the
way, to put me into the right road.

At a short distance from the town we

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bade each other good-bye ; but long
after his tall form had disappeared
behind the acacia hedge of a field path,
his hearty "Addio, Sor Giovanni mio !"
rang in my ears.

The road speedily took me down
into the low-lying land. The apple
trees were in full bloom, the birds were
singing, children were playing before
the houses. The bean fields were in
flower, and the air was full of their
fragrance. Again and again I turned
and looked back. I could not discern
Nazareno Matteucci's house amid the
many other farmhouses at the foot of
the olive-grown hill. The old grey
town stood out prominently, however,
on the height above ; and over that
rose the bare, uncultivated mountain,
with patches of purple forest, and
traversed by paths of a reddish hue.

The hermitage was not to be seen from
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where I stood ; it lay in a recess of the
mountain ; only a corner of the wood
above it was visible.

I walked on and on, farther and
farther out into the wide, open country.
Before me the town of Greccio was in
full view ; in fact, for some time the
road led directly towards it. Presently
it turned in the direction of Rieti. I
had to ask my way. In the company
of three or four workmen, I took a
short cut along a narrow path leading
to a river, over which we were ferried
by a sturdy young woman. One of the
men helped her to manage the sail,
and, when we reached the other side,
paid her for his passage with a kiss.
My companions and I went for a drink
to a tavern near the station at Greccio.
It happened to be just after the time
of leaving work ; the tavern was full of
workmen and other nondescript indi-

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viduals. All were, however, well
behaved and even polite. When I
had paid for one bottle of red wine,
my companions insisted on providing a
second, but they would not accept my
offer of a third. Then we parted
company. I repaired to the station,
and paced up and down the platform,
looking up to the dark mountains,
where a few lights were visible, and
where I knew that my friends in the
monastery were assembled for night
prayers. Suddenly the curfew bell
rang from the height. I felt almost
as if my home were there.

It was midnight when I reached
Foligno. I got some one to show me
the way to my hotel ; it was but a few
steps through a broad avenue lighted
with electric light. Before long I was
in a comfortable bed, and forgot all my

weariness in sound slumber,
ill

IV

ASSISI

THE next morning I visited the tomb
of Blessed Angela of Foligno, in the
Franciscan church of that town. Her
remains are enclosed in a magnificent
sarcophagus, the sides of which are
plated with gold. Afterward I betook
myself to the residence of the cathedral
canons, and made acquaintance with
Mgr. Faloci, of literary renown — a slim
little priest, whose smooth face and
regular features are essentially Italian.
I presented him with a copy of my
Danish translation of the Fioretti,

and he in return gave me his Life
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of St Clare of Montefalco, the best
biography of her as yet published.

In the afternoon I resumed my
pilgrimage. By the time the train
reached Spello, where it stopped a
while, the sky had become overcast
and the mountains were shrouded in
grey mist. I sat at the window,
looking out. Before long I caught
sight of an outline in the distance,
strongly marked against the grey sky —
the familiar outline of the mountain
above Assisi, on the summit of which
stands St Clare's castle. In another
minute the whole town came into view,
a clearly denned line of buildings at the
foot of Mount Stibasio. As we pro-
ceeded I saw the fissure at Carceri,
and in the midst of the green vineyards
the pointed gable and the spire of the
little church of Rivo Torto. And then,
quite in the foreground, I beheld the

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church wherein St Francis is interred,
and the big monastery beside it. I
recognised the towers of Assisi one
after the other; the tower and dome
of the cathedral up above, the tower
on the Piazza lower down, with the
spires and towers of Santa Maria del
Vescovado, the Chiesa Nuova, and
others.

On leaving the station, I set off
immediately toward the ivory- like
buildings of the Franciscan monastery
which gleamed in the evening light ;
a strong, sweet smell was wafted to
me from the flowery meadows as I
passed ; in the distance were the
towers and mountains of Perugia. I
remembered it all so well from a former
visit some ten years ago.

On I went, past Casa Gualdi, the
place where St Francis, when dying,
gave his last blessing to Assisi; past

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the little Gothic chapel to the right
of the road, where a lamp burns
before an image of the Madonna ; up
the small, steep flight of steps leading
to the city gate, where, leaning on
the parapet, I gazed out over the
landscape, the vast plain shut in by
violet- hued mountains bathed in the
golden radiance of the setting sun.
Passing on, I soon found myself before
the church and monastery of San
Francesco.

When I entered the church, it was
almost dark within the broad, low
nave ; the windows, with their saints in
bright and varied colours, looked as
if set with jewels. I went up to and
past the high altar, where some lay-
brothers were cleaning and arranging
the furniture ; and turned into the
south transept, to look again at the
well-remembered frescoes. Then I

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peeped into the sacristy and saw the
dark, carved oak chests and presses,
all exactly the same as I saw
them ten years before. I felt as
if I were in a dream — a delight-
ful dream, from which I dreaded to
awake.

Before leaving the church I went
down into the crypt, feeling my way in
the darkness with hand and foot, until
I stood before the railing that sur-
rounds the tomb of the Saint, where
flickered a number of little lamps. In
the profound tranquillity of that hal-
lowed spot I realised that I was really
again in Assisi, with which so many
happy memories and holy aspirations
were associated.

Passing later by St Clare's Church,
built of red and white stone, I went
down the road bordered by olive trees
to San Damiano. The church was

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quite dark, for it was now eventide ;
yet there was light enough for one to
see Tiberio of Assisi's fresco in the
little chapel in the courtyard — a
charming harmony of pale, subdued
tints. I sat down to rest for a few
minutes on the bench outside the
convent gate. The sunset sky showed
golden between the delicate grey leaves
of the olive trees. Two aged friars
came slowly down the road; they
knocked at the gate and were
admitted.

I wandered about the town for
some time longer, sauntering through
the long, lonely avenues, where only
here and there a solitary lamp shed
a feeble light, and climbing the narrow,
steep streets before betaking myself
to my night quarters. The streets
were quiet and almost deserted. All

seemed unchanged.
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Early the next morning I was awake.
The chime of bells came in on the
cool morning air. Looking from my
window, I saw below the grey, moss-
covered roofs of the town, still wet
with dew, and the church of San
Pietro. Somewhat later I took the
same way that I had followed on the
day before — the road leading to San
Damiano. There was something ex-
hilarating about the early hours of
that sunny May morn. Between the
olive trees the corn stood already half
high, a bright, rich green; and the
olive leaves were of a fresher, less
dull grey than in summer. All looked
so fresh, so full of life, in the bright
scene before me, that, on arriving
at San Damiano, I could not resolve
to go into the church at once to look
at antiquities and relics : I thought I
would walk along the field paths for

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

a little while, under the olives on the
hillside.

As I went I met an old Franciscan
pacing up and down in the sunshine,
his Breviary in his hand, keeping the
place with his thumb, while his
admiring gaze was fixed on the clear
blue heavens. Our eyes met, and the
old Father smiled in his long, grey
beard, a smile that beamed with
good-nature, and without preamble he
exclaimed : " Che bello cielo ! " (What
a lovely sky !) I stopped, and we
entered into conversation. With the
garrulity of old age, he discoursed long
on the beauty of nature, declaring it
to be the best of temples wherein to
worship, laud, and magnify the God of
creation. Then he bade me a courteous
farewell, and passed on his way ; while
I entered the cool, shady little church,
resolved to see everything there which

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recalls St Francis and St Clare, those
two Saints who were one in spirit, and
whose life was one of prayer, of poverty,
and of praise.

The Daughters of St Clare no longer
dwell in the poor convent at San
Damiano (that is now inhabited by
the Brothers), but higher up, close to
the Porta Nuova, where is the large
church erected by Philip da Spoleto
in the middle of the thirteenth century,
not long after the basilica over the
grave of St Francis was completed.
It was there accordingly that I sought
for further memorials of San Damiano.
I saw the Byzantine crucifix whose
mute eloquence appealed so forcibly to
Francis' youthful heart, and was so
decisive for his whole life, that from that
time forward it was said of him that he
bore the wounds of the Lord Jesus in

his heart.

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I also saw a notable relic and
precious heirloom of St Francis — the
Breviary that Brother Leo wrote for
him, and, as an inscription in the book
informs one, out of which, "as long
as his health permitted, he used to
recite the Office in accordance with the
regulations of the Hule ; and when he
was no longer well enough to recite it
himself, he desired to have it read in
his presence, and this was done as long
as he lived. Whereupon Brother
Angelo and Brother Leo earnestly
entreated the Lady Benedicta, abbess
of this convent of St Clare, and all
who should succeed her, to keep and
preserve always with the utmost care
this book whereof our Father so often
made use, in pious remembrance of our
holy Father." This request has been
fulfilled : the Breviary, executed on

beautiful parchment in Brother Leo's
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elegant penmanship, is preserved to
our day under lock and key in a doubly
secure reliquary.

From St Clare's Church I went down
into the crypt below ; for here, as in
San Francesco, it is a place of inter-
ment. Ever since 1850, when the
spot where she was buried was
discovered, and the crypt built, the
body of St Clare, undecomposed by
the lapse of centuries, may be seen by
every visitor. A curtain is drawn
aside, a wax taper is held by a Sister,
and behind an iron railing, fronting a
large square of glass, is seen the form
of the Saint, beautiful in her last, long
sleep. " Clara nomine, vita clarior,
clarissima moribus," says Thomas of
Celano.

There was still much to be seen in
and around Assisi. I spent one after-
noon in taking a long walk over Mount
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

Subasio to Carceri, the secluded
monastery situated in a laurel-clad
cleft in the mountains, where Brother
Rufino was sorely tempted by the devil
in the form of the Crucified. On the
following morning I visited Rivo Torto,
down below on the plain ; and Porti-
uncula, which lies close to the station.

Rivo Torto is the place where
Francis dwelt with his earliest disciples,
after his return from Rome, when
Innocent III. had given his sanction
to their manner of life. Their habita-
tion was a mere shed, and so little
space was there in it that there was
hardly room for all to sit down. To
prevent confusion, and that each might
know his place, Francis wrote the
names of the Brothers in chalk on the
boards. Neither church nor chapel
was there ; the Brothers erected a
large wooden cross before the shed,

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and round it they used to kneel in
prayer. It is probably in remembrance
of this that a large cross always stands
before Franciscan houses.

They had no means of subsistence
unless they could obtain employment
by helping the peasants in field work,
when provisions were given them in
payment for their labour. Ofttimes
these penitents of Assisi, as they styled
themselves, returned empty-handed
from their begging expeditions ; and
then they had to be satisfied with
turnips instead of bread, water instead
of wine. To us it seems a hazardous
undertaking on Francis' part to em-
brace such rigorous poverty, and one
often wonders how ten or twelve men
could live thus, without bread to eat, a
fire at which to warm themselves, or
books to read. Yet the annals of the
Order record only one desertion amongst

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

the first disciples : Brother John of the
Hat, so called because he objected to
wear the cowl which forms part of the
habit of the Order.

Leaving Rivo Torto, I took the
straight road to Portiuncula — or, as
the place is now called, Santa Maria
degli Angeli. There in the large,
light church, and in the monastery
adjoining it, are all the well-known
relics and hallowed spots : the original
chapel of the Portiuncula, that Francis
built with his own hands; the cell in
which he expired, and wherein, over
the altar, is now Luca della Robbia's
statue of the Saint ; and, near the
entrance, Pisano's painting on the lid
of the Saint's coffin. Then there is
the rose garden where the bushes are
strangely flecked as if with spots of
blood; and the chapel erected over
St Francis' cell, decorated with frescoes

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from the brush of Lo Spagna and
Tiberio d'Assisi.

In the Sacristy the usual souvenirs
of the place were offered to me for
purchase ; and while there I made
the acquaintance of the young Padre
Alberto, Nazareno Matteucci's son,
from Poggio Buscone, to whom I
had sent word that I was there. He
advanced to meet me with a look of
inquiry in his large brown eyes — a
slight, strikingly handsome young man.
I grasped his hand and said I was
the bearer of all manner of kind greet-
ings from his home — from Nazareno,
Pasqua, Uncle Benedetto, Don Severino,
and the mayor's son, Signor Provaroni.
At each name I mentioned he opened
his eyes wider. At last he burst out
with the inquiry, "But who are you,
then?" and at the same moment his
eyes were suffused with tears. All

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IN FEANCISCAN ITALY

Poggio Buscone, all his home was
suddenly brought before him.

Yet it ill beseems a Franciscan friar
to stand crying like a child ; so, pulling
himself together, Padre Alberto quickly
took hold of my sleeve and drew me
into the refectory. " Come ! " he said.
" Have you dined ? Ah, that is a pity !
But a glass of wine — you will have
a glass of wine ? " Whereupon he
hastened to his place at table and took
some of the wine which had been put
there for him to drink at supper,
depriving himself of it for me. Must
he not offer some refreshment to the
lips that had brought him such loving,
welcome messages from home ? His
hand shook as he poured out a glass
for me — for the stranger who had
come to speak to him of all his loved
ones — and the tears still stole down

from his long, dark eyelashes. Ah,
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Poggio Buscone, the home of his
boyhood ! Ah, his dear old mother
Pasqua, his father ; the good old grey-
haired Uncle Benedetto, who had held
him on his knee and taught him his
letters; the dilapidated little church,
where as a boy he served Don Severino's
Mass ; the distant village of San Felice,
whither he had gone on pilgrimage
year after year ! All that was so far
away from him, and yet so near to his
heart; and now came a stranger who
had seen all and everyone, who was
there only a few days ago, who had sat
at table with his father and uncle, who
had been waited on by his mother, and
had talked to his brother, who seemed
to bring with him the very atmosphere
of home. What a strange thing life is,
and how easily the heart is touched !

Presently I left the monastery and
the church, and before long was seated

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

outside one of the little inns opposite to
the large basilica, of the Renaissance
period, which St Pius V. caused to be
built over Brother Francis' simple little
chapel. And while the day drew to a
close and the sun shed its golden radi-
ance over the scene, while the big
fountain alongside the wall of the
church splashed down from its many
mouths, I sat down and pondered.

At half-past three the next morning
I went with my worthy host of the
hotel, Santa Maria degli Angeli, the
short distance to the station. It was
a dark, warm morning. My host
carried a lighted candle in his hand :
there was not a breath of wind to make
it flicker. We soon reached the station.
The train arrived almost immediately,
and I got into a coach crowded with
night travellers — a mixed company of

not altogether desirable companions.
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As I sat by the window I watched
Assisi disappear from sight, a dark
silhouette with three solitary lights.

I had not slept much that night. In
the evening, not long after the Angelus
rang, just as I was thinking I should
go to rest early, the bells of Assisi
struck up, calling to me in their festive
notes, jubilant and yet solemn, San
Francesco's bells went on ringing and
ringing. Up there on the hill stood
San Francesco's convent, with all its
windows lighted up; and almost be-
fore I knew what I was doing I was on
my way to the convent, whose bells
were ringing and whose lights were
gleaming. I felt I must go up once
more to Assisi ; I must once more
experience the singular, intoxicating
charm of those streets, those steep
alleys, those unpaved ways and open

squares.
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IN FEANCISCAN ITALY

So on and on I went until I got up
there, and could wander about every-
where unnoticed and unknown, visiting
all the spots that were so dear to me :
the square in front of Santa Chiara ; the
road with the wide vista of the open
country beyond the Porta Nuova ; the
steep, narrow alley leading up to Sant'
Andrea ; all the localities rich in
memories and associations — all of
which I was to leave behind me on
the morrow, and which I should
perhaps never revisit. Once more I
passed by the green gate of St Philo-
mena's little convent, and lingered
before the grating, thinking of the
Brothers who were calmly reciting their
Latin night prayers within, as they
would do on the morrow when I should
be no longer there, as they would
be doing should I return thither some
time or other after the lapse of years.

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PILGRIM WALKS

At length I tore myself away. At
the corner where the highroad to Assisi
turns off to the church and monastery,
I sent back a last, lingering look.
High up above, I saw under an arch
in the wall the swinging lantern
whose light had often shone upon me
of an evening in days long past, when I
sat at my window listening to the
conflicting voices within me. Only one
woman, dressed in black, came noise-
lessly down the narrow, deserted
street, and I heard the purling of the
brook. Farewell, Assisi — Assisi mio,
farewell !

In a state of exaltation I walked all
the long way from Assisi back to Porti-
uncula. The night air was perfumed
with the scent of flowers ; the sky was
spangled with innumerable stars ; the
bells of Assisi were silent, but the

light in the windows was still visible
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

behind me. Again and again I could
not refrain from looking back; again
and again I felt I must repeat my
farewell. Even when I had regained
my room at the hotel, I looked out
for one last sight of the tremulous
lights of Assisi. Farewell, hallowed
city of a thousand memories, of my
dreams, my longings, and my faith !
Farewell Assisi — farewell, farewell !

And now behold me seated in the
train speeding northward — speeding
toward Terontola. We reached Perugia
just at daybreak. Four working-men
with big bundles got in; they seemed
very jolly and merry. They talked
and shouted noisily, threw their pack-
ages about, lighted cigars. " Addio,
Perugia!" the oldest and most jovial
of them all called out when the train
began to move out of the station. The

words had scarcely escaped his lips
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before he burst into tears, sobbing and
crying convulsively with his head
against the window frame. The
others tried to comfort him. "Come,
come, France ! " they said soothingly,
and endeavoured to stroke his hand.
But he pushed them away and con-
tinued to cry. "He is going away
from his children," his comrades said
to us. They were emigrants going to
Nice.

At Cortona I alighted. I wished to
visit the town which St Margaret made
famous ; and I also wished to see
the Franciscan monastery of Celle,
near that same town.

134

V

CORTONA. ON THE WAY TO MOUNT
ALVERNA

LOOKED at from below, Cortona pre-
sents a very pleasing aspect, with St
Margaret's Church standing out con-
spicuously on the highest point. It is
a modern structure, but built in an old
style of architecture of black and white
marble. The town is, however, unclean
and full of beggars and idlers.

Soon after midday I set out for Celle.
It is one of the very oldest settlements
of the Franciscan Order. The day was
warm ; a hot haze brooded over the wide

valley of Chiesa, marked out as it
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PILGRIM WALKS

was into vineyards, dotted about with
cypresses, intersected by white roads.
Blue mountains rose in the distance. I
heard the cuckoo's cry, and gay butter-
flies flitted past me.

At present the monastery of Celle
(the Cells) is inhabited by Capuchin
friars, and popular parlance has given
their name to the locality. One must
not ask in Cortona the way to Celle : one
must ask the way to / Cappuccini. It
struck me as one of the most peculiar,
fantastic spots I had ever visited.

At the bottom of a deep fissure in
Monte Sant' Egidio rushes a turbulent
river, spanned in several places by stone
bridges with bold arches. The old
convent, situated on both sides of the
chasm, consists of a small number of
scattered houses, rising one above
another on different shelves of rock,

having gardens in which the friars may
136

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

be seen walking about or working
busily. Everywhere are steps, balus-
trades, terraces, gable-ends, bell-turrets,
trees ; and on the eminence above rises
a forest of ilexes and dark, pointed
cypresses.

The zigzag path, roughly paved with
large, uneven slabs of stone, leads down
to the bottom of the chasm, where you
cross one of the bridges beneath which
the greenish waters of the rapid river
rush noisily, to ascend again on the
opposite side, till at last you come to an
open greensward, the space before the
monastery, where stands the traditional
cross. The entrance to the church and to
the house are under the projecting roof
of a rather low lean-to, in one corner of
which is a stone table surrounded by
stone benches. I am told these are for
the accommodation of the inhabitants of
Cortona, who make excursions thither

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on Sundays, provided with luncheon
baskets.

The most noteworthy thing about
Celle is its peculiar situation ; for there
are not many reminiscences of St Francis
there. A black - bearded Capuchin
wearing spectacles, with particularly
regular, white teeth, showed me the
little that there is to be seen — the cell
where St Francis used to pray : a cold,
damp, dismal room, with one loophole
of a window looking out over the
brawling river and the naked rock.
One of the walls was decorated with a
painting of the Madonna in Byzantine
style.

Then I left Celle. It had begun to
rain. A mechanic, with whom I entered
into conversation by the way, took me
by a short cut across the mountain to St
Margaret's Church. We were wet

through when we got there ; it was
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

already almost quite dark in the church.
The kindly, brown-habited Franciscans
were most cordial in their reception of
us ; they did what they could for us, and
showed us everything : here was the cell
of St Margaret, which in her time stood
on the bare, rocky hill above the town ;
there hung the crucifix which spoke to
her; there again, on the back of her
sarcophagus over the high altar, was
her portrait, painted by Pietro da
Cortona — a faithful representation of
her body after death, exactly as it still
remains uncorrupt unto this day. Could
we see her remains ? No indeed ; no
one is allowed to do that. The municipal
authorities of Cortona have had a
lock put on the shrine, and will not
give up the key. Quite recently a
visitor came with a letter of recom-
mendation from Cardinal Ferrari ; but it
availed him nothing : he had to go back

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as he came. It is, of course, naught
else but officious meddling ; the mayor
is a Liberal, and cares not a jot for St
Margaret ; yet he likes to annoy us by
keeping her under lock and key. So
said my guide.

From the church the cheerful young
Father — his name is Cherubino ; he
teaches philosophy to the young Fran-
ciscans who are pursuing their studies
here — took us into the refectory, where
quite a little crowd of Fathers and
Brothers gathered around us. We
chatted about all manner of things
with them while partaking of some
refreshment.

When we emerged on to the wind-
swept greensward in front of the church,
the rain had ceased ; the air was cold,
and wonderfully pure and invigorating.
Darkness had closed in ; the lamps
were lighted in the town below'. Father

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

Cherubino kindly accompanied us a
short distance, but the way down was
not difficult to find.

Presently we reached Cortona.
Through steep, rain -washed streets we
got into the centre of the town. On
the market-place I took leave of my
companion. " Good-bye, sir ! " he said,
adding : " Ci vedremo in cielo ! " (May
we meet again in heaven !)

Next morning I was up by five
o'clock, and soon on my way to Mount
Alverna, in the valley of Casentino,
somewhat south of Florence. The train
stopped at Arezzo, whence a side-line
took me to Bibbiena. The distance
from there to Mount Alverna is about
eight miles — eight miles which must be
covered either in a carriage, on horse-
back, or on foot. I chose the latter
way, to the evident astonishment of

the Bibbiena cab-drivers, of whom there
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PILGRIM WALKS

were a good number at the station.
They could not believe that I was in
earnest, the honest fellows. They
followed me up the streets of the town ;
they reduced their fare more and more,
thinking that my refusal of their offer
was a stratagem to get the conveyance
more cheaply. At last one after the
other desisted from their pursuit of me,
saying, with a shake of their heads :
" This foreign gentleman is crazy ; he
means to walk to La Verna ! " Yes,
I intended to walk to La Verna, to
climb the mountain — that " rugged rock
between the Tiber and the Arno " of
which Dante speaks; where Brother
Francis received the seal of Christ, and
bore it two years, until the day of his
death.

I had scarcely gone any distance in
the pelting rain when I saw a lofty

range of mountains before me, and one
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

jagged ridge which rose high above the
others. That was the goal of my
pilgrimage — Mount Alverna. The
weather was warm, in spite of the rain ;
out over the green fields I heard the
cuckoo's note, and now and again my
ear caught the sound of bells, indistinct
in the distance. The muddy road
descended first, then ascended again ;
presently I reached a place where it
divided, and a plain grey stone bore
these inscriptions on either side, "To
the Romagna"; and, "To La Verna."
I chose the latter, a gravelled way
leading upward to an eminence planted
with young copper beeches, on the stiff
young leaves of which the rain beat
down, as it pattered monotonously on
the umbrella which, fortunately, I had
taken the precaution of purchasing in
Arezzo. Between the young trees the

bright golden gorse was in blossom, and
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PILGKIM WALKS

I heard the tinkle of sheep bells in the
meadows.

I trudged on for a long time over this
range of hills. All around were
mountain ridges of greater height, one
behind the other, all half shrouded in
grey mist. Bibbiena, now far below,
looked like a white streak on the hill,
surrounded by dark cypresses.

From the hilltop the road again led
down into a valley. The weather began
to clear ; a passing break in the clouds
lighted up a grey, foaming river, a
tributary of the Arno, and a row of tall
poplars just coming into leaf on its banks.
As I crossed the bridge over this river I
gave its swift-flowing waters a greeting
to bear to fair Florence, where before
long they would run rippling beneath
the Goldsmith's Bridge.

The way was now a continual, but

gentle ascent. A mountain brook
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

murmured down below ; the song of a
nightingale reached me from the warm,
verdant valley. From a thick wood of
oaks as yet leafless I came out upon
cultivated fields and vineyards, inter-
spersed with big boulders of rock.
Presently cultivation ceased ; I passed
through untilled fields, where lambs
were grazing among blocks of grey
stone. Here and there a shepherd boy
was sitting. All around were moun-
tains and clouds. Bibbiena and Poppi,
which had been hidden by the forest,
now reappeared to sight, but much
farther away and much lower down. I
could no longer see the mountain range
of La Verna in the foreground.

I walked on and on — sometimes
standing still for a while, then on again
quickly. On all sides I heard the mur-
muring, gurgling springs which trickle

out between the stones. The cuckoo
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PILGRIM WALKS

called in the wood below, and from
out yonder a more prolonged song was
sounding. Onward and upward.

Quite suddenly the clouds came down
like a white fog, and I could see nothing
beyond the brown hills in my immedi-
ate vicinity. A woman was standing by
the wayside, feeding her sheep and spin-
ning meanwhile. What with two coats
and the weight of my bag, I got quite
overheated. But still higher and higher
I had to go. Now there were a few
houses built of stone alongside the
road ; in one of them the traveller was in-
formed that Pane, vino e generi diversi
were to be had, the latter being prob-
ably salt and tobacco — the two articles
on which duty was paid. I did not care
about any of the "various sorts," and
went on past the houses.

In a field I saw three women stand-
ing with distaffs, spinning busily. Up-
H6

IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

right and immovable they stood, sil-
houetted dark against a foggy back-
ground. They resembled statues of
the Fates. In the valleys on each side
of the mountain which I was crossing
I could descry nothing but volumes of
white mist ; and when these rolled
away, blue vapour rising from the soil.

All of a sudden the clouds before me
broke, disclosing La Verna again to
my view. I had got much, very much,
nearer to it. I could see that the lower
section of the mountain is r eddish -
brown, from the forest trees ; above, it
is dark and jagged in outline, from the
firs that clothe it.

I paused a while, and tried to make
a sketch of La Verna. The sky had
cleared to some extent ; down in the
valley I saw smoke rising, and I heard
children's voices singing in their shrill
soprano. I listened attentively and

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PILGKIM WALKS

caught a few words — these lines which
recurred over and over again as a
refrain :

Stendi la mano, O Maria !
O Maria, nostra speranza —

" Hold out thy hand to us, O Mary !
O Mary, in whom is our hope ! "

The i in Maria was every time so
sharply accentuated that it rang like
a cry — a cry for help.

For a long time the singing con-
tinued. I could not see the singers,
but felt sure they must be boys.
Presently from the other side of the
mountain another voice struck in, one
less powerful, sweeter — a woman's voice,
perhaps. They answered each other,
the two songs ; and at last the voices
met in chorus, finally dying away in one
loud, animated, lingering strain :

148

Evviva, evviva Maria !
Maria, mamma mia !

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

I quickened my pace as I went on.
An icy wind met me, and I had to
button up my coat. Before I was
aware of it, I found myself enveloped in
a white mist much denser than the
former one. It soon turned to rain, and
the rain became a torrent. La Verna
was no longer visible ; no songs were
now to be heard. I plodded on my
lonely way over the sodden ground
beside a grass-grown dike. I began
to realise that I had been walking a
long, long way ; but I must push on-
ward, onward !

Again a few houses were discernible
through the mist — square, poor-looking
houses built of stone. The road, too,
was paved here. I was passing through
a very small town. I even saw a post
office. "R. Poste" was on a large
official board beside a small, closed

door.

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How it rained — rained as it does rain
in Italy : not drops, but sheets of water,
lashing one like a whip ! The street was
paved unevenly ; I stepped into pools,
and got splashed up to my waist. The
rain dripped from my umbrella down
my back ; I was already cold and wet
up to my knees ; now the wet began to
soak through my overcoat, so that I
could no longer warm my hands by
putting them into the pockets. I had
left the town far behind me, and got to
an interminable succession of zigzag
stone steps up the mountain. I
thought I must have nearly reached my
destination ; for I felt that my strength
would not hold out much longer.
Clear water coursed down the steps
like a river; my boots were limp and
soaked, and great, heavy drops dripped
through my umbrella on to my unhappy
shoulders ; there was scarcely a dry

150

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

thread on me. Nearly four hours had
elapsed since I left Bibbiena. At every
bend in the way a fresh set of steps
appeared, but as yet no gate, no
monastery. In fact, as I afterward
learned, the monastery is nearly five
hundred metres from the town where I
saw the post office; La Beccia is its
name.

All at once, at a fresh turn in this
apparently endless ladder-like ascent, I
saw a small building at a little distance.
I hastened up to it ; it was a votive
chapel, a wayside shrine of the kind
frequently seen in Italy. I stood for a
minute looking at it, not quite knowing
what to make of it, when an old in-
scription carved in marble caught my
eye — an inscription from which I learned
that this was the spot where the birds
bade St Francis welcome to Mount

Alverna.
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Then the monastery could not be far
off. I pushed on with fresh courage,
and almost before I was aware of it I
saw a big, open archway of masonry in
the wall of rock on the left-hand side
of the road. Over it I read these im-
pressive words : Non est in toto orbe
sanctior mons—" In all the world there
is no holier mountain than this."

Passing through the gateway, I
entered a wide courtyard paved with
flagstones, in which, a little way off,
was a statue of St Francis. I had got
into harbour at last ! Some men were
standing in a cloister out of the rain ;
I went up to them and asked them to
show me the way to the monastery.
Without saying a word, one of them
went and rang at a door. It opened
noiselessly, and on a high staircase I
saw a Franciscan coming down to meet

me. I shut my dripping umbrella, the
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

rain still pouring down me, and went a
few steps up the stairs. "Father,
you see before you a hapless pilgrim
drenched to the skin." He took my
hand and led me with him, not stop-
ping until we found ourselves in a room
where a huge fire was blazing. Then
he took off my overcoat, poured me out
a glass of wine, heaped more logs on
the fire, and begged me to take off all
my clothes and hang them before the
fire to dry. Thereupon he disappeared,
promising to come back after a while.
At last I was on Alverna, the sacred
mountain ; and I was glad.

153

VI

THE HOLY MOUNTAIN

THE Franciscan monastery on Mount
Alverna is an extensive building, com-
prising several different structures,
erected in the course of seven centuries.
The stranger soon learns to distinguish
these principal parts : La Chiesina,
a church dating from the latter half of
the thirteenth century, corresponding
to the chapel constructed, by Count
Orlando's orders, under the title of
Santa Maria degli Angeli, for St
Francis and his Brothers ; Chiesa
maggiore, the principal church, in the
form of a cross, in the simple and
noble style of the fourteenth century,
enriched with as many as six of Delia

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PILGRIM WALKS

Robbia's best paintings ; the monastery,
in front of which is a small space
flagged with stone, whence a far-reaching
view of the majestic mountain scenery
may be obtained ; and finally the
Chapel of the Stigmata, erected in 1263,
on the spot where St Francis, on that
fourteenth day of September 1224,
received the marks of Christ's sacred
wounds. This chapel is situated a
considerable distance from the mon-
astery and other buildings, with which
it is connected by a covered way.

Twice in the twenty-four hours —
in the afternoon after Vespers, and in
the night after Matins — the friars wend
their way to the Chapel of the Stigmata
to commemorate the wondrous miracle.
They do not keep silence as they go :
the walls re-echo the voice of prayer
and praise ; and when they reach the
chapel they kneel down and recite the

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antiphon ID honour of St Francis :
Signasti hie, Domine, servum tuum Fran-
ciscum signis redemptionis nostrce.
("Here, O Lord, Thou didst impress
upon Thy servant Francis the sacred
marks of our redemption.") At the
word "here," two of the friars point to
the stone in front of the high altar, which
marks the exact spot where St Francis
knelt when he received the sacred
stigmata.

On that rainy day in May when I
arrived at Mount Alverna, the after-
noon procession was long over ; so I
begged the guest-master, when he
returned to find me once more in dry
attire, to have me called before Matins
the next morning. I wished this
particularly, because I was not sure
whether I could spend another night
on the mountain.

While we were talking about this
156

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

matter, two other Fathers came into
the guest-room ; one of them introduced
himself to me as the Father Guardian,
Father Saturnino da Caprese ; the other
was one of the Franciscans recently
expelled from France, by name Father
Samuel — or as the Italians, with their
fondness for doubling the final con-
sonant, called him, Samuelle. The
Father Guardian withdrew almost
immediately ; but when Padre Samuel
discovered that I could speak French, he
was delighted, and sat some time talk-
ing to me. Finally he promised to call
me at night in time for the procession.

The fear of being too late, however,
made me so uneasy that I woke of
myself long before the time. As early
as one o'clock I started up, and in the
pitch darkness groped about for the
lucifer matches on the table by my

bedside. I struck one : it spluttered,

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PILGRIM WALKS

smoked, threw out sparks, and burned
with a blue flame ; at last I contrived
to light a candle with it.

I did not dare to trust myself to go
to sleep again. I left the candle
burning ; its faint light only made more
perceptible the darkness of the large,
deathly cold room. And while I lay
there in the intense loneliness and intense
silence, not hearing even the patter of
the rain outside, an appalling dread
took possession of me — a dread worse
than the dread of death — the most
awful fear that can weigh an unhappy
mortal to the ground : the fear lest he
should, after all, not be the friend of
God. Why, I asked myself, should
this fear fall upon me here of all places
— at La Verna, whither I had so often
longed to direct my pilgrim steps?
Then a voice answered me — a harsh,
hard, ugly voice, one which I had heard

158

IN FEANCISCAN ITALY

before, and in which there was not the
least accent of sympathy : "Dost thou
not know that there are individuals to
whom God gives all in this world
because He can give them nothing in
the next — lets them have their will
here because there is no joy for them
hereafter ? And if a man finds pleasure
in pilgrimages and religious feelings, in
pious thoughts and the relics of saints,
God grants his desires and allows him to
enjoy the sweets of piety, as others enjoy
art, honours, or dissipation. Such a one
is not really nearer to God than they are,
nor has he a better title to heaven — "

The loud, sharp notes of a bell
interrupted my gloomy musings. I got
up, dressed quickly, and went into the
corridor outside my room. A little
farther on I came to a flight of stairs,
which took me down into a yard.
There I struck a match, and by its

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PILGEIM WALKS

feeble, uncertain light I saw — or
thought I saw — a few steps off, a huge
creature, a gigantic bulldog or mastiff,
standing motionless, ready to fall upon
me. Without uttering a sound, I
quickly retreated, the same hateful
voice whispering in my ear : " That is
the Evil One waiting for thee." But
now I heeded not the voice. I regained
my cell, and quietly fetched my candle.
I went up the stairs : was there a way
out above ? I only got into an attic
full of all manner of rubbish.

Then I began to explore the corridor
slowly and systematically. First of all
I put a chair to the door to keep it open ;
for there was no latch outside, only a
keyhole without a key. I knocked at
all the doors in the corridor, but re-
ceived no answer. On the opposite side
there was nothing but windows giving

on to the courtyard. At last, at the far
160

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

end of the corridor, I found a little door
which was evidently the way out. Alas !
it too was locked. In vain I shook it.
I was locked in, a helpless prisoner.

Then the bells rang out for the
second time, a prolonged, joyous peal.
I thought despairingly : " Now the
procession will start and I shall not be
there to see it. They have forgotten
me ; or perhaps, in mistaken kindness,
left me to sleep, thinking I can go with
them the next night. But I have not
time to stay another night, and so I
shall have to go away without having
attained my object." Despair gave me
strength. I rattled the door furiously,
and knocked till I woke the echoes.
No doubt the friars were all in the
church and could not hear me. And
there were the bells again for the third
time ! How musical, how happy they
sounded ! I leaned against the window,

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PILGRIM WALKS

staring out into the dark night; not
the faintest streak of dawn was visible.

All at once I saw a light in the
windows of the opposite building. The
light moved. There was evidently some
one over there carrying a candle, coming
nearer ; for one window after another in
my direction was lighted up. Soon I saw
a figure walking along the corridor which
must lead to the locked door behind
which I was standing. My heart leaped
with joy. They had not forgotten me :
they were, after all, coming to fetch me.

I heard a key rattle on the other side
of the door, a bolt was drawn back, and on
the threshold stood little Father Samuel,
smiling and kind, his spectacles glit-
tering in the candlelight. " I am not too
late ? " I asked anxiously. The good
Father seemed somewhat surprised to
find me in such a hurry. "By no

means," he answered ; " there is plenty
162

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

of time. We have only just finished
Matins, then come Lauds, and the pro-
cession is not until they are ended."

"There is plenty of time!" What
a relief for me to hear that ! I followed
him in silence through the long, dark
passages. When we got to a high door
with iron clamps, he blew out the candle
and we entered the church. It was so
cold that I shivered.

The lofty, vaulted roof was lost in
shadow. Behind the high altar, the
apse was brilliantly lighted. The friars
were reciting the Office in the usual
manner, on one note, in measured time.
I listened a while, and presently caught
the words of the Benedicite. My agita-
tion subsided, my fears were calmed
as the praises of the Almighty God,
ever reiterated, fell on my ear. Other
equally beautiful psalms of praise fol-
lowed ; then came the Benedictus, at
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the close of which a lay-brother came
out of the choir and went down the
church with a lantern. He threw the
doors wide open, and from behind
the altar the procession issued slowly.
First two lanterns were carried, swing-
ing from high poles. Then followed in
long succession the friars in their
brown habits, walking two and two. I
counted them : there were thirty- seven
in all. I joined the procession. Some
one in front began to recite the fiftieth
psalm : Miserere mei Deus. The voices
of the others arose in response : Et
secundum multitudinem miserationum
tuarum dele iniquitatem meam — words
which found an echo in my heart.

By this time we had reached the
church door. The boundless night
outside — the grey, fog-laden night-
lay like a shroud on the broad, bleak,
lonely landscape. The wind blew on us

164

IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

icily cold ; the fog rolled like waves of
vapour in the light of the lanterns. But
we soon turned away from the dark
night, and entered the covered way on
the right. The long line of friars walked
on quickly before me, their shadows
flitting over the dark, cold walls.

When the Miserere was ended, the
De Profundis was recited. Meanwhile
we had got to a trellised door in the
right wall of the passage, and on going
down a few steps came into the ante-
chamber of the Chapel of the Stigmata.
A kneeling-chair was placed for me
exactly before the entrance to the
chapel, within which the brothers had
already taken their places, filling the
choir stalls and some kneeling on the
steps of the altar. Above them was
an altarpiece in blue and white, a copy
of a Crucifixion by Delia Robbia.

The service in the chapel was quite

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short. The antiphon, as I expected,
was chanted ; then followed a few
minutes of silent prayer ; after this one
of the friars began to intone a litany,
and each and all prostrated full length
before the altar and kissed the ground.
Then we returned to the church, the
litany being recited meanwhile.

When it was ended, Father Samuel
came and conducted me out. As the
door closed behind me I heard a noise
in the church : the brothers were
beginning to scourge themselves. The
good French Father left me at the
door of my room, after wishing me
courteously, "Bonne nuit!" It was
nearly two o'clock. I went to bed
again, and slept soundly until eight.

While I was asleep, a beautiful,
bright, spring morning had dawned,
flooding Mount Alverna with golden

light. From the little terrace in front

166

IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

of the church and convent I could see
outspread a wide panorama of wild,
picturesque scenery. Leaning over the
edge of the parapet, one could look
down into an abyss of wet rocks ; and
far, far below them lay the verdant
fields, with huge boulders here and
there. Those were the open fields I
had crossed on the previous evening,
in the pelting rain, on my way to Mount
Alverna. I could trace the road by
which I had come.

But when I looked upward I saw
nothing, only mountains all around.
The nearer ones were of a yellowish
brown colour; the distant ones were
purple, flecked with brown, black, and
green. The line of mountains, peak
after peak, trending away to the blue
horizon, resembled a petrified sea, with
waves of varied colours. Bibbiena lay

far down below ; and the mountains
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PILGRIM WALKS

which I had climbed yesterday on my
way hither looked like mere ant-hills.
The prospect was boundless — boundless
as the heavens above it.

It was Sunday, and the country
people had come up to hear Mass.
Hound about on the terrace stood
groups of honest peasants conversing
in a low voice, rosy-cheeked women,
smiling children. Not one of them
came up to the stranger to beg ; only
one old woman approached me and
began to talk. She was from a dis-
tance— from Castel Fiorentino, a town
on the other side of the Appennines.
"Yes," she observed, "here on this
mountain St Francis suffered so much,
did so much penance. We too must
suffer and do penance if we would hope
ever to go to paradise."

Presently up came Father Samuel,

fresh and bright as the morning,

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IN FKANCISCAN ITALY

although (as indeed was usual) he had
not taken any rest since the procession.
Under his escort I visited every spot
hallowed by association with St Francis :
the cave where he prayed, the other
cave where he slept, and finally, high up
on the mountain, the grotto in which
Brother Leo was accustomed to say
Mass for his master and spiritual father.

While, after a long and difficult
descent, we stood for a time in silence
at the bottom of the dark, damp ravine,
between gigantic walls of rock, where
St Francis abode, I could not refrain
from saying that I could not imagine
any one living in such a spot, and very
often exposed to such weather as we
had had yesterday.

"True," Father Samuel answered,
" the climate of La Verna is very incle-
ment for the greater part of the year.

We have three, or at the most four,
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PILGEIM WALKS

months of summer ; during the rest of
the year snow, rain, fog, and storms.
I have heard visitors who came from
Assisi say that what they had seen
there is not to be compared with what
we have here. Assisi is lovely, pleas-
ing, delightful; there our Institute is
seen in its fairest growth. But here
one sees where its roots are struck,
the depths out of which it cries to God.
Here its aspect is indeed appalling ;
nothing less can be said of it."

Ascending by a narrow flight of steps
between colossal masses of rock, we
reached Brother Leo's cell, which is
light and airy. At the farthest end is a
small altar, before which there is room
for only the officiating priest to stand.

"I said Mass up here once," observed
Father Samuel, as if in answer to my
yet unspoken question. " It was on a

summer morning, exactly at the hour
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

of sunrise. Just as I made the Sign
of the Cross before beginning, the
crimson beams of the sun shone out
over yonder mountain — Monte Casella.
And when I turned to say the Dominus
vobiscum, what a glorious sight the
wide landscape presented — the sun's
rays darting forth to dispel the morn-
ing mist ! I was so overcome by the
thought of God's greatness that I
scarcely dared to take His name upon
my lips ; and every time that I came to
the word Dominus or Deus in the
Mass I hesitated and trembled, like
the children of Israel at the foot of
Sinai; and I banished every thought
of earth out of my mind, as Moses
put his shoes from off his feet in the
presence of the burning bush. Of a
truth, this is indeed the place to say,
Sursum cor da ! — ' Lift up your hearts I ' '

As we descended the slope he
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PILGRIM WALKS

continued : " Yes, La Verna is called
the Franciscan Calvary, and justly so ;
for the Crucifixion was renewed,
repeated in a marvellous manner, on
Francis' body. It might also be called
our Thabor, the Mount of Transfigura-
tion ; for truly Francis was never so
near heaven as during those lonely
hours on Mount Alverna. It is easier
for us weak little ones to follow him
to Thabor than to Calvary.

" St Francis loved this mountain
more than any other. He was one
who attached himself to places ; and
from no spot did he take leave with
such emotion as from Mount Alverna
when he quitted it for the last time.
You have not seen his touching words
of farewell ? Then I will read them to
you this afternoon. They are very
beautiful. We read them in the re-
fectory every year on the 30th of

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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

September, the anniversary of his de-
parture hence ; and however often one
has heard that farewell, it always
touches one anew."

The morning hours sped quickly ; the
time for the High Mass drew near, and
we turned our steps toward the church.
It was the feast of the Invention of the
Holy Cross, a suitable day to be cele-
brated on Mount Alverna. After the
Mass I dined with a bright-eyed young
peasant, little more than a boy, who had
come to La Verna "per farsi /rate" —
to become a Franciscan lay-brother. He
was soon to exchange his secular clothes
for the brown habit and cowl.

After dinner I climbed the mountain
above the monastery ; la penna it is
called; the summit reaches the same
height as Vesuvius. There the moun-
tain is thickly wooded. On the extreme

verge are some majestic beeches, below

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PILGEIM WALKS

which the grey rock was carpeted with
blue anemones, yellow cowslips, and
small purple hyacinths. In the interior
of the wood the ravines are shaded by a
thick growth of Scotch firs (pinus silves*
tris). The clouds, which had looked
threatening, began to roll away over the
majestic mountains ; and the sun shone
with such heat — almost summer heat —
that the ground was dry enough for me
to sit down upon a rock. There I re-
mained until the bells rang for Vespers.
After Vespers the second procession
of the day wended its way to the
Chapel of the Stigmata, with a longer
following, but without the impressive
solemnity of the nocturnal one.
Psalms were not recited as they were
in the night, but the arched roof of the
long corridor rang again with the hymn :

Crucis Christ! mons Alvernse

Recenset mysteria —
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IN FRANCISCAN ITALY

"Behold on Mount Alverna's height
Christ's Cross revealed to mortal sight."

Towards evening I went in search of
Father Samuel, to remind him of his
promise to read me St Francis' farewell.
It was a transcript of the original
document, which is written on parch-
ment, penned by Brother Masseo, and
preserved in the reliquary of the
monastery. After reading it, the good
Father talked to me for a long time —
or rather delivered a discourse on the
intense love of the Saint for God — a
love which, for God's sake, he extended
to all his creatures. At last he pulled
himself up, saying :

" But, my dear sir, here I sit and let
my tongue run on, quite forgetting how
tired you must be. You will pardon
me, I am sure. I so seldom have
an opportunity of speaking my own

language, it makes me almost feel as

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PILGRIM WALKS

if you were a fellow-countryman.
What time do you start to-morrow
morning ? At five o'clock ? Very well.
At half-past four I shall be in the
church to say my Mass, so that you
may not leave without that blessing."

Thereupon he bade me a hearty
good-night. Soon I was alone in my
cell. I went to the window. The sky
was overcast, the beeches and firs of
La Verna were silhouetted black
against the grey heavens. I stood a
long time looking out. This, then, was
the end, the happy end, of my pilgrimage,
by which, starting from Kome, passing
through the vale of Rieti, through
Assisi and Cortona, I had reached
Mount Alverna — the pilgrimage which
had led me from the Crib at Greccio to
the mystic Crucifixion on La Verna.

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